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About the Farm

In Bernie's Own Words

Welcome to SaveBerniesFarm.com - I appreciate your being here and lending your own energies to my effort to hold onto my home of the past four decades.

My farm has gone by many names over the years. When I first set foot on it (in 1969), it was known as Kelly Holler for the country family who had lived there for at least three generations.

By the time that three of my undergraduate professors at Vanderbilt bought 27 acres and a house, surrounded by Kelly Holler, as a weekend retreat, Bud and Betty Kelly were in their 80s but still living happily on the land. They welcomed all of us who accompanied the professors on the first weekend to their new land and got to know those of us who returned week after week to enjoy the peace and solitude of this middle Tennessee farm.

The professors called their little piece of land "Galgrimac", and over the years, the farm was known as "Hippie Holler", "the nudist colony" (after I got caught by two carloads of locals plowing a garden wearing only boots and a headband) and now by its new name "Trace View Farm."

Within two years of buying the first piece, the professors (John McCarthy, now at Penn State; Omar Galle, now at Texas-Austin; and Jim Grimm, whereabouts unknown) decided to purchase the rest of Kelly Holler with a "life estate" agreement for Bud and Betty that would allow them to live out the remainder of their years on their farm. With that purchase, the professors became the proud owners of around 145 acres that included three old farm houses and one soon-to-crumble-to-the-ground barn.

Two years later, after trying unsuccessfully to buy two parcels of land that bordered on Kelly Holler, I was able to buy out Professor Grimm's portion of the farm. That purchase bought me a one-third interest in the entire farm.

It also bought me a place to hold my heart - a home place. It has been my home ever since. (Fifteen years later, I bought out Professors McCarthy and Galle, and the farm became mine alone.)

With the help of my friend Dub Campbell (who took these pictures) and Marlene Bruce (who is the shepherd of this web-site), I'll try to give you a little taste of what Trace View Farm is like, and why this farm is so special to me.

Today, Trace View Farm is 187 acres of woodlands and rolling pastures. By adding bordering pieces here and there over the years, I now have fourteen ridges and thirteen valleys, most of which is upland hardwood (hickory, red, black and white oak, cherry, black walnut, tulip poplar, cedar and thousands of dogwoods.)

But about 60 acres of the farm is cleared as pastures, which I have used to run cattle and to cut hay for my cows and my neighbors' horses. The farm is covered by a number of quiet trails and farm roads, and this time of year, it is a gloriously colorful place. But because Tennessee is blessed by four full seasons, every day on the farm is a beautiful and different time and place.

The farm is bordered on the north and west by the Natchez Trace Parkway, a national park highway that runs from Nashville, TN to Natchez, MS - over 400 miles that follows and commemorates one of the earliest settler highways that allowed for the expansion of our early nation from east to west.

Indian tribes along the route called it the "Path of Peace," though early white settlers renamed it the "Devil's Backbone." Fortunately, the Indian people's longer influence over the trail seems still to permeate the land. But signs of early white settlers still abound. I have an old graveyard on the eastern border of the farm with thirty graves marked with limestone slabs, only one of which is readable, dated in the 1830s.

Today, the farm stretches almost a mile from north to south, and because of the boundary with the Trace, it is a very quiet and secluded place. However, on my east side, I am blessed with neighbors who grew up on the land where they now live. I can often see their horses as I walk my land or cut my pastures.

Given the degenerative joint disease in my hips, I can no longer sit in a saddle. But having the horses nearby still makes for a pleasant sight. They recognize me and often come over to the property line (where the fence marks an old stagecoach road) to watch me work.

One of the fortunate things about the lay of the farm is that the Trace marks the water-shed that drains completely on my farm. The farm has five separate creeks that start from springs on the land and since no other farm drains onto my land, the water is clear and clean.

For several years after moving onto the land for good, the creek was my bathing hole - winter and summer. In the cold months, I would heat a bucket of water to take a warm shower by the creek, rinsing with creek water that is always 56 degrees or colder where a major spring empties into it. Very refreshing in the warm months - cold as a well-digger's butt in the winter.

In addition to the springs and creeks, I have three ponds on the farm, one of which is large enough to be stocked with bass, catfish and bream; and wide enough to have a 250 foot swimming lane to use in the hot and humid summer months.

Above the big pond is a fledgling four acre "pick your own" berry farm that I have planted to allow Nashville residents to drive the Trace and spend a rustic hour or so picking blueberries, blackberries and red and black raspberries.

These berries are coming along nicely, though my time away from the farm will likely cover them in brambles and other weeds. It takes constant attention to keep the berry rows from turning back to brush and wild brambles. Hopefully, I will be allowed back occasionally through the coming winter months to work on them and keep them alive. And to act as if the farm will remain mine, if only on a nine hour pass from the halfway house.

We have also built a small log cabin as the "check in" spot for the berry farm. Built with pine logs uprooted on the Trace during the '92 ice storm, my friends helped me stack the logs; chink between them; add some siding, a metal roof and a front porch facing south; and finish it with wood-hinged windows and door, with a wood stove and a double level sleeping loft inside. It has been a nice place to spend late afternoons watching the sun set and seeing the deer rise from the woods to graze between the berry rows.

Before I plumbed my house (to have a 20th century home at the beginning of the 21st), my neighbors helped me build a wood-fired sauna to make the creek baths a lot more bearable. We built it big enough to seat 8-10 people and everyone who helped construct the sauna is always welcome to come use it any time. In the cold months, I often fire up the sauna 2-4 times a week, ending my day with a 180+ degree sweat before crawling into bed.

My farm home is old, small and very rustic by most accounts. But it is mine. I have re-sided it with poplar slabs from the farm, taken when we built the big pond and then milled to leave the lower edge following the contour of the logs ("moody siding," it's called.)

Over the years, I've made some improvements - a sun porch on the south side, tile in the kitchen and wood stove room, cedar cabinets in the kitchen. But it is still a small and rustic home, with the inside walls covered in rough-cut oak board-and-batten. As one neighbor wife said, "it's looks like a barn turned inside out." But she also said that it has the feel of rustic elegance. And having done much of the work myself and with friends, I appreciate that compliment.

One feature of the house is a beautiful stained-glass window, modeled on one of windows at the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite Park. My ex-wife, who was an architectural stained glass builder, made it for me as a wedding present. And I have enjoyed it ever since, even though we have been divorced for eighteen years. While the stresses of my pending legal troubles have brought much worry over the past three years, they also brought her back for a long visit last year - five days to reconnect with her and to remember why we cared for each other, those long years ago, and now.

Fourteen ridges, thirteen valleys, laid out like a large hand of a backwoodsman, creeks flowing between the fingers. Peaceful, quiet, surrounded by the mysteries of the Natchez Trace, nestled in a loving and supportive country community that has rallied to my support.

As I type these words (on my third day in the halfway house, with 537 more to go), I am unsure when I will see the land - my home - again. I am also unsure whether it will be there to greet me when I am free to return. But right now, the memories are strong and soothing; and the sunset over the halfway parking lot and the five chain-link fences that stretch from here to my new horizon (two short city blocks beyond) is also shining on my deep hollow home. My two farm dogs - Annie and Duke - are probably wondering just where I've gone off to. But my temporary tenants - Cheryl, my neighbor's daughter and her eight year old son - are no doubt giving them much love that is a worthy substitute until I return.

Thanks for taking this tour of the land with me. And for giving me a reason to write these words and to remember where my heart is. Even while my body is under these florescent lights and surrounded by other inmates (residents, roomies, whatever I will learn that we call ourselves), calling their families on the few pay phones in the hallway and watching whatever's on TV. As for me, my mind is wandering south, about forty miles toward Natchez. To a quiet, peaceful place. A place worth saving.

Thanks for your help, in whatever form it comes.