Spring of 2003 was a whirlwind. Life felt split between two worlds: Spartanburg and the farm in Four States. I didn’t see it at the time, but that year marked the beginning of a slow, inevitable shift in where I belonged.
The Cold Drive North
I drove up to the farm for spring break in March. I still remember the feeling of driving north from Spartanburg that spring. The further I went, the colder it got. By the time I reached the mountains of West Virginia, the warmth I’d left behind had disappeared entirely.
When I pulled into the farm, a thin layer of snow blanketed the ground. It wasn’t deep, but it was stubborn enough that it wouldn’t melt. The air was heavy and quiet, the kind of stillness that makes sound carry for miles. The farm felt peaceful under that gray-white sky, but it was also depressing to step out of my car and feel the cold cut through me.
Inside, Dad and I spent the week working on the house. My parents were still living in the apartment in Shinnston at that point, so the farm was quiet except for the two of us, making slow progress in the chill of early spring. Mom would hang out with the animals and get us food when it was time for lunch and dinner.
Waterlines, Pools, and Change
Dad had struck a deal with our neighbor at the end of the road: in exchange for helping install the new waterline, the neighbor could hunt on the property. I thought it was a fair trade, but it also marked the start of a season where everything at the farm seemed to be changing — and not always in ways I liked.
By late spring, the problems with the contractor came to a head, and my parents finally fired him. To keep moving forward on the farmhouse, they bought a fifth-wheel camper and moved onto the property. It felt like they were settling into a whole new life there, and I was still trying to catch up to what that meant for me.
The biggest shock, though, came in June. I drove up for a visit and discovered an above-ground swimming pool sitting where Aunt Mary’s garden used to be, on the northeast side of the house. That was her space — where she grew green green beans, potatoes, peppers, and so much more. I thought we’d continue growing vegetables there. But instead, there was a giant pool, bright blue and out of place.
I asked Mom when they’d even have time to use it, considering how much work was still left on the house. She insisted they would. Half-joking, I asked if the ducks were going to end up swimming in it, but underneath the humor was disappointment. It felt like every time I came back, another piece of Aunt Mary’s world was disappearing. I wasn’t used to so much change happening so fast.
Turtles in the Duck Pond
Summer on the farm was its own rhythm — slower, but full of small battles. One afternoon Dad called me out to the duck pond. Some snapping turtles had found their way in and were biting the feet of the ducklings.
He handed me the .22 rifle and set up a lawn chair near the water. My job was simple: wait, watch, and shoot when the snappers came up for air. It was harder than it sounded. Only their small, dark noses broke the surface, so I had to stay alert, scanning for the slightest ripple.
The smell of algae and duck poop hung in the humid air as I sat there, concentrating harder than I ever had before. I was nervous at first — every shot echoed across the hills — but with time, I found my rhythm. That summer, I managed to take out two of the turtles. After that, the ducklings were safe.
It wasn’t about sport. It was necessity. Protecting those baby ducks felt like protecting the farm itself.
A Murder in Four States
While I was back in Spartanburg in early July, my parents called with shocking news: a young woman had been murdered in Four States. They found her body in the creek, only a few hundred yards from the driveway leading to the farm.
It didn’t make sense. Four States was quiet. People worried about stolen tools or missing lawnmowers, not something like this. The neighbor at the end of the road was outraged — everyone was. Who could do such a thing?
I was angry, too. That girl had her whole life ahead of her, and someone had taken it away. My parents had always kept the doors locked, but this rattled the community. It felt like the shadows of the world had crept into a place I thought was untouched by them.
Faith, Friends, and Fellowship
Amidst all the upheaval, my parents reconnected with Ken and Sue, old friends of Dad’s who were attending a Christian Missionary Alliance church in Fairmont. They invited my parents to come, and soon I was joining them on Sundays.
It was refreshing to see Mom and Dad plugged into a church again, surrounded by people they could laugh and fellowship with. After services, we’d grab lunch with Ken and Sue, the four of us lingering at the table, talking about life and the work waiting back on the farm.
Those quiet Sundays felt grounding. In the middle of all the construction and chaos, they gave us a sense of stability we didn’t realize we needed.
Building the Addition
By midsummer, Dad and I tackled our biggest project yet: tearing off one side of the house to make room for the new addition. We framed two stories — a downstairs laundry room, and upstairs, a bathroom and master closet. It took weeks of sweat, sawdust, and frustration, but by the time I had to return to Spartanburg at the end of July, the walls were standing tall.
While I was gone, Mom’s sister and brother-in-law — Aunt Beck and Uncle Gene — came up to the farm. Uncle Gene helped Dad get the roof on the addition. Meanwhile, I was back in Spartanburg, working just enough shifts to pay the rent on my apartment. As soon as I could, I’d head north again, drawn back to the farm like a magnet.
Lowe’s, Lumber, and Long Days
That fall, I decided to take the semester off from school to focus on helping Dad. We spent our days wiring electrical, running plumbing, and putting up drywall. Trips to Lowe’s became routine, though the employees hated to see us coming.
Lowe’s always stacked the warped boards out front. Dad and I would insist on a fresh pallet from the back — straight, solid wood. “If you’re going to build a house that’ll last a hundred years,” Dad would say, “you don’t do it with twisted boards.”
One afternoon, hauling lumber back to the farm, we hit a bump on the narrow road and heard a loud thud. The boards had slid off the trailer. Some teetered right at the edge of the ravine. My stomach sank, but we scrambled to recover every last piece. We laughed afterward, mostly out of relief, and kept driving.
Spartanburg Nights
When winter came, I spent more time back in Spartanburg, working to rebuild my savings. By then, Java Jive — the coffee shop I loved — had closed for good. I missed the smell of espresso and chai, the old brick walls plastered with jazz and R&B album covers, and the lava lamps that gave the place a soft, nostalgic glow.
After Java Jive, I went back to Outback Steakhouse, but most of my old crew had moved on. Spartanburg nights became quieter, though we found our own rhythms. Sometimes that meant late-night trips to Walmart — wandering the aisles, grabbing snacks, sitting on chairs from the garden section in front of twenty TVs all looping The Emperor’s New Groove. We’d always pay for our empty chip bags at the register, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Other nights, we’d end up at Magnolia Street Pub, my favorite spot in town. Touring bands from Charlotte came through often, and the upstairs stage thumped with alternative rock. Downstairs, we’d battle over air hockey, where an ongoing rivalry with a coworker kept the games competitive. The place smelled like cheap beer and freedom.
Goodbyes I Didn’t See Coming
I loved those nights with my friends. I loved the laughter, the music, the aimless adventures. But even in the middle of it, my thoughts would drift to the farm — the sound of ducks splashing in the pond, the smell of sawdust, the quiet.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was starting to let go of Spartanburg. My friends were moving forward — new jobs, new relationships, new cities — and part of me knew I would too.
Looking back now, summer 2003 wasn’t just about sawdust, snapping turtles, or Walmart nights. It was the season I started saying goodbye to one life without realizing another had already begun.