[crickets chirp] - This magazine, the issue of "Garden & Gun," I wrote about saying goodbye to my family farm in this one.

It was a piece called "A Dream Uprooted."

[gentle music] [grass rustles] "As I walk, I think about my daddy, how he used to stroll with me back when he was strong and capable, quick to laugh and eager to teach, curious about the state of the natural world and in awe of all its bounty.

The thing that bothers me more than the money, more than the losing, though, is how will I explain to future generations why this place mattered.

How do I explain the pleasure of the first bite of that ripe fruit when there is nothing left to taste?

The way we soaked watermelon seeds in sugar water the night before planting them in order to make the fruit sweeter, the quick scan we learned to do with our eyes when we hunted poke salad in the spring.

I fret about the recipes and traditions so innate we never bothered to write them down.

[gentle music continues] When I return from walking the land, I can't breathe quite right, and I wonder, for about a week, if this is a heart attack or simply heartbreak.

I wonder if untethering myself from Silverstreet will do me in, if by losing my land, I am losing my anchor, my grasp on my sense of self.

[gentle music continues] [insects chitter] My daddy's people have always made sense of the hard times through tales.

There always seemed to be a parable, folk tale, or Bible story for the moment.

As an adult, I don't want to hear about divine intervention or miracles, knowing I can't expect either.

I have not found the story I am looking for, so I take refuge in writing my own.

I want the world to understand the Grahams of Silverstreet were here.

We loved fiercely and fought hard, and we carry this white river sand and Carolina red clay in our DNA.

We will never be erased."

[birds chirping] [ambient music]