Every piece of land has a story, and our old coal-built lane carries generations of memories—along with its fair share of stubborn coal bits. My granddaddy built that lane back when he worked at the coal mine. Crushed coal was cheaper than rock, so that’s what he hauled home to pave the path. It connected the family to a horse pasture and a small barn, serving as a vital route for daily chores. Later, my daddy parked his campers there—first a slide-in, then a pull-behind—to keep the yard from turning into a muddy mess.
As a kid, I walked barefoot on that coal lane, quickly learning that crushed coal is no friend to tender feet. Decades later, the lane still clings to its history. Enough coal pokes through the dirt, especially on the western side, to make walking barefoot an exercise in toughness. That’s the side I cross most often—go figure. It still pokes through with enough coal to remind me it hasn’t fully surrendered to time—not yet. Those sharp bits feel like little echoes of the past, persisting through decades.
Now, 30 years later, we’re giving the lane new life, one wheelbarrow load at a time. It’s been compacted and hardened over the years, making it impossible for grass to grow. Coal isn’t exactly nutrient-rich, so to set the stage for something new, we’re layering in wood chips and mixing in rabbit manure. The chips will break down over time, softening the ground and holding moisture, while the manure adds the nutrients grass desperately needs. Together, they’ll transform this hard, unforgiving path into something green and welcoming again. It’s a slow process, shoveling those piles by hand, but every wheelbarrow load feels like a step forward—an act of care for the land my family has walked for generations.
The chickens have their own hand (or claw) in this story too. Last summer’s June storm stripped us of shade trees, leaving the area around their coop as one of the few places to escape the sun. The flock spent so much time there that they scratched the ground bare. Add in their well-trodden scrap pile path from the farmyard to the front yard and the spots where we emptied the duck pools—far too often in the same place—and we ended up with more barren patches than I care to admit. This year, we’re adjusting. The duck pools will be moved around more, and the chickens will still get their snacks, but the land will get its chance to recover.
Rebuilding the lane and these bare patches feels like more than just a project—it’s a metaphor for resilience. The coal reminds me of the past, how it shaped us but didn’t necessarily sustain us. The addition of wood chips and manure is a commitment to the future, one wheelbarrow load at a time. It’s a slow process, but slow doesn’t mean fruitless. It means deliberate, careful work toward something that will endure.
And that’s the beauty of it—restoration takes time. Grass won’t sprout overnight. It’ll be months, maybe years, before I can walk the lane barefoot without wincing. But those first blades of green pushing through the coal will mean more than just new grass. They’ll be a testament to what’s possible when you believe in the power of change, even in the hardest, most unlikely places.
Do you have projects that remind you to be patient, or land that’s connected to your family’s history? Pull up a chair and let’s share some stories. Because whether it’s a coal lane, a farmyard, or a life, we’re all layering on hope and working toward growth—one step at a time.
Until next time,
Traci
