Sometimes I feel like an orphan.
Maybe it’s because I’ve lived away from my family since the tender age of eighteen.
Maybe it’s because I live in a ranching community where “everyone else” lives on land homesteaded by their ancestors. Same last names on the mailboxes. Same brands on the cattle.
Maybe it’s because so much of modern life is built around leaving—leaving for college, leaving for jobs, leaving for “more,” leaving because the world rewards mobility.
Or maybe… it’s more personal than all of that.
Maybe it’s because generational legacy is a bruise for me.
I’m not angry about it. I don’t think anyone owes me a birthright. It’s just this quiet, human pang that shows up sometimes. A little envy. A little grief. A little I wish I had that too.
And my bruise gets brushed up against often—in conversation, in stories, in the throwaway comments people make without realizing it. In every conversation I have, every podcast I listen to, every book I pick up, it seems someone is waxing poetic about their fifth-, sixth-, seventh-generation land and/or legacy.
I love that for them.
Ahem.
Anyway. The ironic part is… I almost had something like that.
At least, I had the potential for it. There are homesteaders, farmers, and ranchers on both sides of my family tree. Over time, though, the land and the stories didn’t stay gathered in one place—they got divided, sold, lost, boarded up, or scattered.
I’m not judging and I’m not mad about it. Life happened. People made choices. Circumstances shifted. The glitter of modernity was blinding. And now, instead of one clear thread pulling straight back through time, I hold a bunch of frayed ends.
I’m certainly not unique. Plenty of people don’t inherit a tidy, generational storyline. Still, it leaves a mark—one I notice in the way I crave place and belonging.
I feel it most heavily when I think about the properties we own now.
Old places call to me. Always have. And as a result, we’ve fixed up a number of them over the years.
These places matter to people. You can feel the weight of lives lived as soon as you crack open the door. Even with peeling paint and sloping floors, the walls remember.
That’s when the ache sneaks in.
You see, these properties aren’t in the rural Idaho towns of my ancestors. They’re in a tiny Wyoming village a thousand miles away.
The places in my family tree belong to someone else now. Someone else farms the land, fixes the fences, repaints the walls, and raises kids in those rooms.
And I am here, becoming the “someone else” in a different set of stories. Planting roots where I wasn’t born, in a town that’s slowly becoming mine.
I live on the Hanson family homestead, settled by Henry and Clara in 1910, where they raised five girls and farmed wheat. They lived whole lives inside these walls—the ordinary, holy kind of life where nothing feels historic while you’re in it.
We’ve revived the Chugwater Soda Fountain, where a hundred years of the town’s memories reside. First dates. After-game shakes. Wendell the Elk shot in 1946, The stool where someone’s grandpa drank coffee every morning like it was his job.
We resurfaced the old Chugwater grade school, which was nearly lost forever. Now the voices of children mix with the echoes of students past. I can feel the building smile every time the community fills the old wooden gym that sat empty for years.
We brought a house in town back to the land of the living. It came to Chugwater by train in the early 1900s—delivered as a kit—then spent the next century holding ordinary life: love, arguments, dinners, and conversation. Now a young family once again resides in its four walls.
That’s what gets me every time: these places aren’t just lumber and plaster. They were the backdrop of entire lives—childhoods, holidays, good years and bad ones. And when everyone moved on, they just… waited. For someone to choose them again.
Sometimes I meet with the descendants of the families who built or owned these places. And it’s as bittersweet for me as it is for them.
They show up curious, cautious—often braced for disappointment—and I watch a whole procession of emotions pass over their faces.
Shock. Surprise. Warmth. Recognition. Nostalgia. Appreciation. Sadness.
A quiet, complicated realization of: This was once mine… and now it has moved on.
I suppose I’d share the same feelings if I were to visit the places in my lineage—the houses and acres that grew my family tree and now hold someone else’s dreams.
Maybe that’s the part that stings. Not just the lack of “legacy,” but the fact that legacy can be so fragile. It can slip away without a dramatic ending. It can disappear in a series of small decisions and hard seasons, until one day you look up and realize you don’t know the names on the mailboxes anymore.
I KNOW legacy doesn’t only exist on land deeds. I KNOW it’s more than acreage and property lines.
Yet still…
There’s something solid about a sense of place. A belonging that’s tied to a location you can point to on a map. It’s rare and sacred in our era of constant uprooting. We’re so used to starting over that we’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be held by somewhere.
And that’s how this little Wyoming town of mine has offered me a redemption of sorts.
I’m not native, and I don’t have childhood memories here… But I’m learning. I’m picking up the lore: whose place was whose, who’s related to who, and why certain last names make people pause for half a second before they respond.
And somewhere along the way, roots started to form.
Not the thick, old roots that come from generations of staying put… These are young roots. Tender. The kind you have to water carefully. The kind that could still be pulled up if you’re not careful.
Still… they’re mine.
Planted by choice.
I love this land and these stories as if they were my own. And now, in a way that feels both audacious and true, they are—because stewardship does that. Love does that. Showing up long enough does that.
Like everything else in my life, I’ve had to fight for this.
It wasn’t handed to me. It wasn’t my birthright.
I wanted it. Craved it. And I’ve had to create it, bit by agonizing bit.
For a long time, I didn’t even realize it was happening. It just looked like yearning and restlessness. Like late nights and tight budgets. Renovations that uncover more problems than progress. Showing up when it would be easier not to. Choosing to care about a place other people stopped caring about. Betting on a town everyone else drove past.
And maybe that’s how it was meant to be.
Perhaps the legacy meant for me isn’t about what I inherit.
Maybe it’s about what I’m refusing to let die.
Maybe it’s about choosing stewardship, again and again, until it becomes something that outlives you.
Being “first generation” isn’t lesser.
It’s just different.
It’s heavier in some ways. Lonelier, sometimes. But it’s also powerful.
Because when you don’t have inheritance, you learn how to build. And when you build something that lasts, you don’t just change your own story—you change the story for whoever comes after you.
And you know it’s fully and completely yours. Not by accident. Not by default… But by choice.
And that’s no small thing.
Loved this read, thank you
Oof, I felt this to my bones, Jill. I’ve lived down the road from the land my husband’s family inherited and passed on for generations but we were just one generation away from that piece of the pie — I didn’t even marry into a generational family land. I have family roots in Wyoming, but I grew up in Nebraska — it will always be my home, but Wyoming will always *feel* like my home, somewhere in the crevices of my soul. Thank you for the words that will echo in my heart as I build in this small town of mine…and hopefully the generations after me.
Beautifully said. My family moved a lot when I was a kid. My husband has literally lived in the same town his whole life. We bought the family business that was started in 1952 and have run it for 28 years. This is the only place I’ve lived long enough to have roots & I guess this is my home and legacy now after all these years. But… I still grieve the Oklahoma family farm my dad and his siblings sold last year. It had been in the family for over 100 years and they sold it as soon as my grandma passed. Something about a place your people had lived and farmed for so many years has a solidity to it that a suburban house won’t ever have. But things change and fortunately they sold it to another farming family in the area. I love the life and roots we’ve made here, but I still feel that pull for a place where my own family lived and loved. I guess I always will.
This hit home, no pun intended. I’ve moved a lot in my lifetime always losing something plus myself for a bit. I’ve never been an apartment dweller, even renting it had to be house cause work took me hours away so coming back to a house was a reward in itself. I’ve recently have become the last of my generation so I understand that a niche is living thing.
I loved this. We have moved back to our hometown after living in several other states. Here, in the grave yard on the hill, are my ancestors all the way back to the 1800’s. But, my grandparents’ house was sold, many of the places I grew up in are no longer here and we are trying our best to hold on to Momma and Daddy’s house that he built. It hangs by a thread while we try to keep momma out of the nursing home. I can’t imagine the hurt if we lose it. Life isn’t about things, I know, but holding on to this thread that passes at least back to part of my past means so much. And this reminds me both of my blessing of being back and the ache of trying to hold on to what’s left.
Same. My Missouri family homestead is gone. The houses fallen down and soon bulldozed for a Heart Clinic and parking lot. A Dollar General already sits on my grandparents garden. Only one cousin still remains on a small piece of the original large property.
Luckily, here in another state where I grew up, left, and came back, there is still some land legacy from one set of my two sons’ paternal grandparents. Three generations that only their 88 year old grandmother knows the old family names anymore. The old dairy barn still stands, but sags, unused for over 60 years.
So no ties for my family other than pictures. But my sons’ name is still sometimes recognized in this small town. That is being lost too as it grows. But now your name grows for your se ind generation. And that matters.
Great read and I can relate. My family farm was sold off and I was young and in college and couldn’t afford it.
But it has to start somewhere. That is what I am instilling into my kids about our homestead. For it to become generational.
I’m 70 years old, and I can’t tell you how this resonated with me.
I crave family history but outside of my grandmother, nobody in the family felt that yearning. I’m the crazy one that homesteads at my old age rather than going on cruises and enjoying retirement. Whatever that is. My family on my mother’s side were farmers in Indiana, and I love that. I have a picture of my great grandfathers farm on my bookshelf to remind me of my roots.
I don’t feel as though I’m home here in Texas, but it’s where I’m planted for now and it’s afforded me the opportunity to have my goats, sheep, chickens and garden. But I still long for that sense of “belonging”. Someday….I’m only 70, after all.
I very much enjoyed this. It was beautifully written. Thank you.
I’m glad I stopped here for a bit to take this in. I can relate to that feeling. It was both sad and validating to hear it put into words this way. Thank you for sharing your story.
That was really a cool writing. The first picture reminds me of my grandmother’s town. They had one light.
I feel the same way. We moved onto some acreage in a small town 2 years ago. Thank you for putting it into words. It was such a lovely read and I always look forward to your posts
This really described a feeling that I’d never put to words. I’ve seen my own family land change ownership ?, but now my family and I are the “first generation” in a new, really awesome area, on a couple of acres. I hope to feel like I never want to leave, and I think that will come with time.
Wow, impressive writing. Being a 1st generation is impressive. You have created so much with such meaning & love. Cherish it. I think it’s a great thing.
Hope to visit your area one day! Sounds perfect.
I’ve spent most of my life not feeling settled, not having a sense of place, a sense of home. I have not done well at building that. Thank you for this message.
Beautiful Jill,
From Little Prairie Wisconsin here I’ve pretty much done that, put down roots. Little Prairie Farm School has taken form finally, my dream come true. I’ve been completely uprooted in this creation and my aim is to let someone else continue growing it for the children who come here. Your writing is something to aspire to. I’ve enjoyed following your journey, thanks for this post.
What an awesome piece of writing right from the depths of your heart and soul !
Love this Jill, I can completely understand. Both sets of my grandparents were farmers and owned land, most of which is no longer in the family or being used for that purpose. I also was transplanted elsewhere and see all the land that has been in families for generations and feel that pang. We hope to be in a position soon to institute some revitalization as well although not as significant as I feel you and your family have accomplished the last several years. I hope you feel proud of those accomplishments! Glad to see blog posts reappearing and your face popping back up on my socials occasionally as well 🙂
Inspired by you…again…
I feel similarly here on my farm. Then I remember that this land is older than any family around here. I’m it’s current steward.
I identify with this so much. So much of this is my story too. Beautifully written!
Great piece, thank you ever so much.
The Cambridge dictionary defines Pioneer this way:
” a person who is one of the first people to do something”
Stand tall, you are no less a pioneer than what Henry and Clara were,
or for that matter, any of the earlier pioneers that settled the American west
in the 19th century.
The settlers paved a way to make a living off the land for those who would follow them.
They were the first to endure. To make bare land productive and useful. Yet,
there is much value in turning something that is of little worth to most, and bringing new life and
usefulness to it.
Who knows but perhaps your legacy will be that of a paragon of stewardship.
Stand tall, Miss Jill.
JJ North
Harlan, Iowa
Beautiful sentiments. They resonate.
I love reading everything you write! You make so much sense. I enjoy stories of resilience especially from religious cults. I was raised to choose my own beliefs so I am drawn to those types of stories.
I do have a 3rd generation homestead in Northern Idaho, but none of my friends do. So I see both sides! It’s fascinating to hear your story and I would love for you to write a memoir.
“They lived whole lives inside these walls—the ordinary, holy kind of life where nothing feels historic while you’re in it.”
I love how much you love people, and place, and history. I think you do have a long legacy of land passed down through generations in your family tree; it’s continuing the grand legacy of humanity because this land is where we all came from. Our bones were made from the dust, after all.
Once again, well done Jill! As many have said, this too really, really, (maybe one more is warranted, lol) resonated with me.
I was raised my entire life living in the bustling metropolis of Toledo Oh, a medium size city and that once fuel the glass industry and served as Detroit’s feeder city… It wasn’t till I turned 30 that I purchased and moved, a bit outside the city, to a more (semi) rural property, with a dilapidated 1913’s, 100+ year old (abandoned) farmhouse… on the brink of it’s demise. A property whose past had been long forgotten and now served, simply as an eyesore and a road block to urban sprawl…. It’s taken 15 years, a lot help and support from family and most notably the Lord’s provision, but now, that home; that served a few different families over its life, has been restored to it’s former glory, yet with marks of the more modern life. Since purchasing, I have always been fascinated with discovering its history, and the families it had served.
One of the longer residing families was that of the Hamilton’s… Through a crazy set of unrelated circumstances over a couple of years, my wife and I had the privilege of spending over an hour, walking the second and 3rd generations of that family through the house and property this past fall, who all at one point had lived their. The stories heard, memories remembered, and the bonds formed that fall day, made beyond glad hearts for both them and my wife and I. What started with uncertainty and nervousness, ended with us all as dear friends, with new memories, together, that won’t be long forgotten. Like you said so well Jill… that’s the stories these properties hold… that’s the stories these properties tell!
Beautifully expressed. I enjoy reading your writings. How you express what you are feelings resonates with me. Have followed you for years. You taught me a lot in the homesteading world. Now I get to enjoy and reflect with you in your writings. Thank you for both.
Lovely post. I have a similar family history, but I think something that helps me feel settled, feel tied to my family roots, is knowing our shared history of starting new, stepping out of the known and into the unknown. Downsizing and then traveling thousands of miles for a new adventure. Almost every generation in my family has done this, and also in my husband’s family. I still am very sentimental and love to visit the old homesteads, even if they are completely rotting away. But I treasure our shared family willingness to part with the familiar and set out on a new path.
In San Diego, there’s an art museum with a mural looking out over the ocean. The mural is titled with the words “Brave men run in my family.” I think of that all the time when the question of roots come up. I know staying in one place can also involve bravery, but I like thinking that my ancestors were brave people who set off to have adventures, faced the challenges that met them, and built lives for themselves. I’ve followed in their footsteps by setting off to have adventures and build roots of my own too. My family legacy isn’t land – it’s bravery and the ability to imagine and create a life for myself. It’s a pretty great legacy that has given me a wonderful life – one I chose and made myself. You seem like the same type of person!
I hear ya! My dad and some of his brothers and sisters are buried within the county where they were born. I married a career military guy and we have lived all over and across the ocean. My farming roots were not passed on to my children who live suburban lives and my grands have not a glimmer of the rural life that raised me. Makes me sad that my kids did not know well the generations behind them even though they lived a traveled life I never imagined in my own childhood. Thanks for your writing. It said things I have never put into words.