We call it Congaree and Penn.
The Congaree was the name of the ship that Scott's grandfather captained in World War II. And Penn is from his mother's maiden middle name, Pennington. There you have it. Earth shattering, right? We'd probably call it something different if we were to begin again, but we're stuck with it now, and I think the farm has grown into its name, not unlike a baby christened with a stately old person's name, like Frank or Muriel.
What began as tiny rice farm is now dozens of acres of orchards, fruit trellises, tree nurseries, rice paddies, and (roll out the red carpet) my own little animal haven. We also fancy the farm as a stunning destination for weddings, farm to table dinners and our own personal celebrations (the perks of a country mouse, ladies and gentlemen).
Life is pretty sweet on this little slice of paradise, but it's also a good bit of grit and grind. Work, as they say. It's a wholesome work, and an honest and necessary one. The world needs farmers and their farms, and to be a part of that métier, I am privileged. I will also mention that my morning eggs come straight from a chicken coop, my grains come straight from a field, my spoonfuls of honey from our bee hives and for everything else there's a Fresh Market 20 miles away. I mean, I'm not Amish.
Photo by Stefanie Keeler | Artwork by Lindsay Meyer