Where the wild things grow.

This place is alive.

Figuratively, sure, this place is alive. It's alive with hopes and dreams and fears and ambitions. It's thick with all of that.

These just started growing, wild.
Really, though. It's alive with things that bloom and things that grow and things that taste delicious in these sweaty summer months. It's a challenge, you know. Living life at Lancaster Land, and always being on the run. The things that are alive take over.

The Mr. and I are on the go, a lot. I'm not talking about grocery store runs, although we're human and those things happen too. I'm talking about week-long work trips and weekends full of separate commitments. And sometimes, during this busy season which tends to last all year, we exchange our hellogoodbyes at the front door; he's arriving and I'm leaving.

Hellogoodbyes are hard.

Our lives are in a constant state of motion, and stuffed full with all of the good things. With all of the movement, we have to focus and refocus on all that's good, and often times, we are forced to stare out at what suffers.

 Lancaster Land becomes the land of where the wild things grow. Because when the days are long and the nights are warm, one of two things happen. First, we're gone. We're apart. We're doing that moving forward and working to be better thing. The second, we're home. But we're sipping wine on the deck, enjoying the view of the overgrown wilderness, contemplating if the raspberries that have taken over the hillside are wild, and if they are, how wildly delicious they'll be.We're enjoying the northwest summer and somehow, it feels like it's enjoying us.

The yard suffers. The lawnmower is lonely. The field grass has grown so tall that Roscoe can't see over it when he runs and jumps through it. The house gets messy. But those are all things. Remember, life at Lancaster Land is an experience. Let the lawn grow. Let the weeds rule. Let us enjoy our time here.

It's a jungle out there.

I'm Roscoe and I live here too.

I'm Roscoe. I live at Lancaster Land. Arguably, I spend more time than anyone protecting, watching, and playing here. It's my house, my land, but I let the Lancaster family live here. I even let them sleep on my bed. I think they've got it pretty good.

I know my mom has been writing gushy words about how much she and the Mr. love it at my house, but I thought I'd steal the thunder and tell you what it's really all about. 

I'm Roscoe and I live here too.

At my house, I ride motorcycles. It's like some kind of miracle that I can throw one of my legs over the seat of a bike. Humans do it. Actually, humans do it all the time here. When  I do it, the humans laugh so hard, like it's the funniest thing they've ever seen. So, I sit there, listening to them laugh, thinking about how easy it is to entertain humans. 

The other day, I really took it up a notch and rode a 3 Wheeler down the driveway. I  steered it because I had to. Because Mr. Lancaster wasn't getting to me fast enough and I was about to crash into an embankment. I'm not an idiot, people. Push the handlebars to the right, and the thing turns. It's not rocket science, but I guess over one-hundred-thousand views on your social media thinks otherwise. I love the attention, so keep sharing it. 

I'm Roscoe and I live here too.

I dig here. Because there are MOLES and MICE and BUNNIES. And I'm not sure, but I think they taste delicious. So, I monitor the territory, smelling and listening all the time, waiting. I'm waiting for just the right moment when I feel movement under my feet and catch the right scent. It's then that I dig my paws into the soil, throwing the dirt behind me voraciously. My nose gets buried into the ground, sniffing. I don't often catch what I'm looking for, but the chase is more than half the fun.

I run and jump and play and when we go on car rides, I sit in the front seat because the baby is in the back seat these days. I look at the cows and the horses across the field, and I wonder what it would feel like to stand so tall. 

It's not all fun and games though. The "protector" part of my job description is serious business. I have a family to take care of. And the baby, well I know she can't take care of herself at all. Mr. and Mrs. do a pretty good job tending to her, but I have my hourly smell checks, combined with gentle kisses, just so I can be sure the little one is doing OK. She cries sometimes. When she cries, I have to find a human to make sure they pick her up and kiss and smell her too. She is my greatest responsibility and my greatest fear. They tell me that soon she'll be big enough to lead me around on a leash, and run with me and dig with me and do everything with me. Right now, I'm happy just doing everything for her.

I'm Roscoe, and I live here too.

We may never leave...and that's why we're always late.

When I married the Mr., I was punctual. I was arrive ten minutes early and that's on time punctual. I was proud of that. Gosh, I was proud.

Mr. Lancaster has a nickname. Late Lancaster. I swear I didn't give it to him. I promise it existed way before me. Once we became a pair, I tried to bring him back from the dark side.  At one point, I started giving up and it became practice that when we'd be at an appropriate time to leave, I'd look at him, notice he was still shoe-less, and I'd just head to the car. Waiting. Waiting on Late Lancaster. I didn't get it. It was getting old. 

Now, I get it. And now I'm a Late Lancaster too. 

Fast-forward past the purchase of Lancaster Land, and the thousands of improvements completed and the thousands more not yet even thought of. And together, we're always late to everything. I lost the fight, but I think I actually won a different kind of battle.

We had plans to see The Lion - if you haven't seen it, do it. Shameless plug commencing - it was far and wide the best show I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot. 

"Let's leave at 4:30."
"It's 5:00. We should probably hit the road."
"It's 5:30."
"OK, let's go."

Lancaster Land is a black hole. It sucks you in. But, it sucks you in to a dream world. Into vivid imiganiation-land. Into nothing and everything and it's all insane. It's a money pit, and yet it's the best kind of investment. I think I've just talked myself into realizing that Lancaster Land is the biggest living contradiction in the universe. I'll always have something to roll my eyes at. I'll always have something to smile about. 

Our commute home.
Now I realize the Lancaster lack-of-punctuality isn't a flaw. It's an unapologetic gratitude to the home we've made. We're late because we never want to leave. We've turned our home into our biggest project and the place we stay to vacation. No matter how long we're here, there will always be something to ride, jump, cut, mow, trim, burn (my favorite), wrench, polish, or tend. There will also always be a deck that needs lounging, a book that needs reading, a Roscoe that needs petting,and a bottle of wine that needs sharing. 

Meet Roscoe. More on him later. He's got his own talents.

Perhaps it's best if you come to us. That way, we'll be on time. 

Don't forget about the waiver. You can borrow a helmet.


The nights are quiet here. Except they're not. 

I realized this last night. Mr. Lancaster was away, and friends came by Lancaster Land for some wine. The next time I talk about friends visiting Lancaster Land, I won't have to add that wine was involved, because it always is. I recently said to someone, "I'm good at two things. Pouring wine and starting fires." My sister was nearby, and she quickly responded. "No, but she really is." I was proud. I really like both of those things. 

Anyway, last night...

We had grand plans of guitars and heavy pours around the usual Lancaster Land bonfire...and yes, that's a girls-only kind of thing we do. Unfortunately the liquid sunshine took precedent, and we stayed inside talking of everything and nothing at the same time. 

One of my friends, who has seen more of the world than any of us could fathom, stood in the downward droplets on the deck for a moment and looked into the sky. "It's so quiet here." she said. I nodded. Most nights are this kind of quiet at Lancaster Land. We don't hear horns, and there are no streetlights. There are no noisy neighbors and you can see the stars. You can really see the stars. You can almost reach into the sky and touch them. I smiled as she said this, but inside, I thought about how wrong she was. 

The road is long, but worth every mile. 

It's not quiet here. But it's the best kind of loud. 

Wind through fir trees, alive and howling.
And the rain. Oh, the rain. On our metal roof. The rain.

That's nighttime. Daytime is lawnmowers and tractors and the ping ping ping ping of the two-stroke motorcycle. It's hammers pounding nails. It's the thud of a shovel hitting the dirt and the indescribable sound the dirt makes as it's thrown across the field into a pile. Over and over. The pile will be built for jumps. Of any kind. It's music, lots of music. It's life.  

And the laughter. The laughter is what Lancaster Land is all about. It's why we made this place and why we continue to make this place. 

When you visit, I hope you listen. I want to know what you hear.

Lancaster Land - Helmets Required.

"What exactly is it?"  
"Did I miss your grand opening?"  
"Do I have to sign some kind of waiver?"  

 My favorite comment is no doubt "Oh no. I forgot my helmet." 

You know there comes a point when the answers to the questions and the stories that follow deserve a place to live, to be told, to be shared.

Welcome to Lancaster Land. I live here.

What exactly is Lancaster Land?  It's my home. It's three acres in nowhere. It's work, it's incomplete, and it's amazing. It's a reminder to myself that even when I dig my heels in and scream so loud (inside my head) that I've decided not to do and not to live a certain way, that incredible things come from wiggling my heels loose just a little, letting my soul open up to possibilities I didn't know existed. What happens when I do this, I so painfully learned, is that I just might end up in a place I didn't know I loved.

To Mr. Lancaster, it's a reminder that things can stay the same, while changing drastically at the same time. It's where he grew up, where he learned to practically live on two wheels, and where he played loud music with his middle school rock band in his bedroom until the wee hours of the morning. It's where his heart grew, and hurt, and became the heart that my heart needs. And, thanks to the Mr., it's zip-lines, and go-karts, and dirt-bikes galore. I love that part.

To our Little Lancaster, it's a world of magical possibility and imminent danger.  I'll leave it at that. For now.

I invite you to continue with me on this journey as we take our clay and mold our own life here at Lancaster Land. I don't know what that really means or looks like just yet. I do know it makes me laugh until my sides are sore, cry until my head hurts, and roll my eyes until..who knows...I'm still doing that.

So, that's a start of a description. You haven't missed the grand opening, waivers are suggested and should be a reality, and yes, helmets are required.

Commence Eye Roll...

I know, he's not wearing a helmet and he for sure didn't sign a waiver.
Perhaps what ensued later is why the rule exists now...
You don't have a ramp like this on your back acre?
I'm not even sure where it came from. Things like this just show up.