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April 5, 2022

I got my first glimpse of the place today. Drove out there by myself and knelt in the dirt and ran my hands through the dry clods. Nobody else out there, save a few crows picking over some years-old corn.  

I don鈥檛 think the seller will be a problem. That land gave all it could give and it won鈥檛 give any more. The ground is all hard and rocky, rutted out with old furrows and bits of crabgrass here and there. I鈥檝e seen parking lots with more life. 

It鈥檚 the only piece in that area that butts up to Stanton Forest. The guy across the road seems to be going strong, but not too many other nearby farms are. It鈥檚 perfect. 

I found this old notebook in a desk drawer at home and started writing about all this. We鈥檒l see what happens. 

April 30, 2022

Everything鈥檚 signed. Me, at the age of 58 and only ever worked in the city, now the owner of 94 acres of south Ohio cropland. Or what used to be cropland, at any rate. 

She鈥檇 be proud of me, and that made me smile on the drive home from the seller鈥檚 office. She was always going on about how we needed to give stuff back to nature. 鈥淲e have so much,鈥� she鈥檇 say, 鈥渟o, so much. We have to give it back, Daddy. We gotta find a way.鈥� 

鈥淪ure, sure,鈥� I鈥檇 always nod. And now she鈥檚 gone and I never gave her an answer. 

Well, Firefly, here goes nothing. 

May 6, 2022 

When I stand next to the road, the trees at Stanton are a green row on the horizon. Behind me is the neighbor. To the left and right my land stretches out for about a half mile. 

Neighbor鈥檚 name is Brett. He came by in his truck when I was out there today. 鈥淗owdy, neighbor,鈥� he said like a cowboy with his head sticking out the window. 

鈥淲hat are you growing?鈥� he asked. 

鈥淎 forest, if I can.鈥�

He looked confused but tried not to show it. 

鈥淪oy prices aren鈥檛 bad these days,鈥� he said. 鈥淎 hell of a lot more in soy than trees. And quicker.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 not gonna cut it down.鈥� 

He shook his head. 

鈥淲ell, it鈥檚 your place,鈥� he said and then took off. 

May 16, 2022 

Most of what鈥檚 left of that forest is in the beams of the old Victorians on Euclid Avenue in Cleveland or in Palmer Woods in Detroit. The rest got burned or blighted and then we plowed it under and grew corn and soy until we couldn鈥檛 anymore. It鈥檚 gone, save a few patches here and there. 

I鈥檝e been reading. This land used to be a forest, one of the biggest in the world. Stretched from where the swampland ended in south Georgia all the way up to the tundra in Canada. There were wolves and bears and chestnut trees that showered so many nuts you had to wade through them. 

One of those is the Smokies down in Tennessee. We went when Sadie was 8. I thought she鈥檇 want to see a bear, but she talked about birds the whole way down鈥�245 species there, she said. We walked all over and I could tell that this was a different sort of woods. Deeper, darker. Smelled like old leather and life.  

Sadie wanted to camp in the park, but I didn鈥檛 care to sleep on the ground. Still don鈥檛, actually. I woke up in our hotel room to find her on the balcony, staring off at the mountains, her little hands gripped tight on the railing. 

We can鈥檛 do the Smokies here. Sorry, dear, we gotta crawl before we walk. We鈥檙e gonna start with grassland and then trees. We could just let it go, let nature take her course. But we鈥檇 probably just end up with a haphazard field of soy plants. So, grass. And water. And these people over in England think pigs are a good idea. So maybe pigs, too. 

June 4, 2022 

I don鈥檛 know where she got it from. It wasn鈥檛 from me. I grew up in the Columbus suburbs. Lived in the Columbus suburbs. Ran the dealership in the Columbus suburbs after Dad died. My idea of interacting with nature is one of those documentaries with the British guy talking about starfish and antelopes. 

But there was a little creek behind our cul-de-sac, and she鈥檇 spend hours down there, looking at bugs and toads and building dams with rocks. Come back all muddy and I鈥檇 hose her down in the backyard, with her screaming and trying to dodge the water. 

鈥淲hy do we have all this grass and nothing else?鈥� she asked me once as we walked through our neighborhood. 鈥淲hat are the animals supposed to eat?鈥� 

Which brings me to the pigs. The pigs can help because they root around and turn up the hard soil. Then they shit everywhere and help fertilize the ground for other plants. Or that鈥檚 what this guy I called in England said. 

But right now my land is like those lawns, nothing for the pigs to eat. And that鈥檚 saying something, because I鈥檝e learned pigs will eat about anything, even roadkill. So I gotta plant grasses and berry bushes and other plants to create a first layer of food. 

I鈥檒l also build a few ponds to try to attract birds and create a different type of habitat. And I gotta do it all before winter gets here. 

June 15, 2022

It鈥檚 not much of a pond, but it will do. Rented a backhoe and dug out a pond at the base of where the land slopes slightly down to the south. It鈥檚 about the size of the neighborhood swimming pool by the place Sadie grew up. 

Then I ran a pipe up from the water main and filled it.  It won鈥檛 stay, but I鈥檓 hoping the fall rains will keep it filled just a bit. 

Today, I seeded half the place with grass, wandering the whole place with a bag of seeds over my shoulder, tossing them everywhere. It took all day, out in the heat, no shade. A few birds swooped in to eat some seeds, but it was lonely otherwise. I鈥檒l come back tomorrow and do the rest. 

I went with a mix of big bluestem, switchgrass, and prairie dropseed, which are all tall grasses native to this area. Big bluestem will be shoulder height in a few years. And I did red clover and buckwheat, which are lower grasses. The clover apparently will restore some of the chemicals we need to grow in the soil. 

Next week, I鈥檒l do wildflowers and shrubs, like black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, sunflowers, and elderberry bushes. Those will shoot their roots into the dry and compacted soil and break it up, allowing for water and worms and nutrients to get in. 

And next to the pond, I planted a few cattails that I dug up from the stream behind the house. They鈥檒l probably die in a week, but it felt good to have something Sadie would have touched on the land. 

August 25, 2022

The most magical thing happened today. I went out to the land and was walking around like I always do. There鈥檚 some green shoots all over from the grass I planted, plus I saw a few flowers that I didn鈥檛. 

Ever since I planted the grass, I鈥檝e been seeing mice scurrying around eating the seeds I threw down. I was near the pond, watching a mouse maybe 30 feet away dip in and out of my sight as it hurried up and down the old furrows. 

And then, wham, a red-tailed hawk shot from the sky and grabbed the mouse in its talons. I was so close I could hear the mouse scream. The hawk swiveled his head, looked at me for the briefest moment and then took off again, heading toward Stanton Forest. 

It all happened so fast that I didn鈥檛 realize I was holding my breath. 

October 14, 2022

Fall鈥檚 here, and I鈥檓 worried. We haven鈥檛 had much rain, and not much of the grass has rooted in. The pond is just a muddy puddle. The cattails are still there, thankfully, but I haven鈥檛 seen as many ducks as I saw at first. 

I鈥檓 afraid I didn鈥檛 get things in quickly enough and winter will kill off everything that鈥檚 been growing. But I dearly hope it all makes it through winter alright. I could say the same for me. 

I drive by the spot where she hit the black ice on my way to work. Even in the summer, I find my foot hitting the brake a little early. In the winter, I go through it so slow cars behind me hit their horns every now and again. 

The tree she hit still has the scar, this unholy blotch of black. I thought it might kill the tree when I first saw it two years ago. But it鈥檚 still hanging in, that old oak. I get a real good look at it in the winter. 

March 16, 2023 

I didn鈥檛 go out there much this winter, so there wasn鈥檛 much to write about. Just twice, both times all frozen over and snow on the ground, the grass brown and the cattails shivering in the wind. A desolate place, really. 

It鈥檚 no closer to being a forest than I am to being a raven. 

But now, spring, and melt. And disappointment. Even this early, there鈥檚 buds on trees and low lines of green in some of the fields along the road on the drive out there. My place is mostly dirt and mostly empty. 

There鈥檚 some tufts of grass, but it鈥檚 hard to say what I put there and what the wind did. I must have planted things too late. Or the rains didn鈥檛 come. Or something else. The upshot is it鈥檚 no closer to being a forest than I am to being a raven. 

Makes me wonder what I鈥檓 doing out here. Maybe I鈥檒l just sell the place. 

March 19, 2023

I couldn鈥檛 stand the thought of her trapped in the ground. Her mother and I hadn鈥檛 talked in a few weeks when we both went out to the river that ran about two miles from our house with the urn. It was spring, a few months after the wreck, and the water was a swirl of snowmelt. 

The stream behind our house ran into this river. Sadie had it all drawn out on a map in her room, otherwise I wouldn鈥檛 have known. A summer project, mapping our watershed. She had decided by then that she was going to either be a freshwater ecologist or a zoologist. 

We poured the ashes in the river and watched them float away, just a small patch of gray in a sweeping current of brown. 

March 22, 2023

I was out all day today with my seed sack, getting grass down all over again. By the end my boots were so caked with mud they felt like cement blocks. Too tired to write more. 

March 26, 2023

Today I brought my pigs out. Eight of them, full grown and snorting. The guy I bought them from brought them here in a trailer and everything. 

鈥淵ou got a place to put them?鈥� he asked when he pulled up. 

鈥淎nywhere is good.鈥�

Guy shook his head and undid the latch and the eight of them trampled out onto the mud. They were all old sows, done producing piglets and set for slaughter when I got them. $150 a piece, a steal, the guy had said. 

I鈥檒l be putting corn out for them to eat, but the idea is that they鈥檒l be able to find their own food by the summer. 

With them out there, I鈥檒l have more reason to come back. I鈥檓 excited about that. 

April 5, 2023 

I woke up this morning with a voicemail from Brett. We鈥檇 exchanged numbers last fall when we were both looking for a lost dog from the neighbors further down the road. 

Apparently, some of the pigs had gotten into his soybeans and rooted up a few plants. He didn鈥檛 sound too happy about it. 鈥淭hose pigs are feral. If I see them on my land again, I鈥檒l shoot 鈥檈m.鈥�

Fair enough. I ordered a couple movable fences today. Instead of having them roaming, I鈥檒l keep them on an acre or so then move them in a week or so. 

But already, I鈥檓 seeing more grass, more blooms. When I was out there most recently, there was a whole flock of finches singing and hopping among the green shoots. 

July 15, 2023 

Full summer, as of a few weeks ago. My Lord. I鈥檝e got grass and sunflowers up to my knees. There鈥檚 a couple of geese that seem to have taken up residence in the pond. I saw my first deer a few days ago. 

For the first time, when I stand on the road with my land on one side and Brett鈥檚 on the other, I can really tell a difference. 

The pigs are basically magic. Anywhere I鈥檝e put them, a few weeks later, it explodes with life. 

For the first time, when I stand on the road with my land on one side and Brett鈥檚 on the other, I can really tell a difference. His is all these ordered rows. Mine is haphazard. His is all green. I鈥檝e got yellows from sunflowers and black-eyed Susans, greens in the grass, some orange and red from flowers that I have no idea what they are, and browns where nothing is growing yet. 

It feels like mine, this stretch of land. I don鈥檛 know what to call it. It鈥檚 not a farm. It鈥檚 not a forest. It鈥檚 still in that long in-between. But it makes me smile, looking out onto my misshapen kingdom, a kind of patchwork quilt knit by no one in particular. 

August 24, 2023 

The letter came in the mail to my home address. It was all dressed up and on legal letterhead. McCovey and Haines, it said at the top. 

To Mr. Gregory Elroy, the owner of property located at 501 E. Larson Road,

We write to you regarding the nuisance you have created on your property at the above address. Our Client, Mr. Brett Tubbs, of 400 E. Larson Road, has noticed a considerable uptick of deer, squirrels, birds, and other nuisance animals entering his property and disrupting his planting, seeding, and growing of crops. 

Having farmed this land for 17 years, Our Client has never been so disrupted in his labor. We urge you to cease from all activities related to your 鈥渞e-wilding鈥� of the property at 501 E. Larson Road including the planting of wild grasses, trees, shrubs, and other flora and fauna and the additional lack of maintenance that might further disrupt Our Client鈥檚 legitimate farming operations. 

If you do not, we will have no choice but to pursue legal action to remedy this situation in a court of law. 

Sincerely, 
Mike McCovey, Attorney at Law

Rewilding. It鈥檚 funny they used that word. Brett had driven by a few weeks back and we鈥檇 talked about the weather and the Reds. He seemed over the pigs thing. 

I told him the word for what I was doing was 鈥渞ewilding,鈥� which I鈥檇 only just learned from some YouTube videos. He鈥檇 shrugged. 鈥淎s long as it don鈥檛 bother me,鈥� he said. 

It must have. 

My second thought came unbidden. It鈥檚 working, I thought. It鈥檚 working. 

August 29, 2023 

After a long time thinking, I decided to ignore the letter. What could they really do? I owned the land outright. If they wanted to come and take it from me or sue me over a few deer wandering into Brett鈥檚 fields, they could go right ahead. 

I got a call from one of the principals at school when Sadie was 12. Apparently she鈥檇 found a baby squirrel on the playground and had been keeping it in her front pocket and feeding it Gatorade with an eyedropper in class. Her teacher had heard it squeaking. 

鈥淚f I don鈥檛 have it in my pocket, it鈥檚 gonna die, Dad,鈥� she said over the phone, her voice panicked and teary. 鈥淚t won鈥檛 stay warm enough anywhere else.鈥�

I begged the principal to let her take it home and we鈥檇 take care of it here. I found a shoe box and hooked up a light to keep it warm. 

鈥淭hat won鈥檛 keep it warm enough. It鈥檚 gonna die,鈥� she said. 鈥淲hen it鈥檚 that little it鈥檚 supposed to be next to its brothers and sisters and mother almost all the time.鈥�

I had to drag her to school and we left the squirrel at home. I don鈥檛 know what happened, but when we got home the light had gone out and the baby squirrel wasn鈥檛 moving much. It died a day later. 

She didn鈥檛 talk to me for a week, just slamming doors and scowling. Any time I walked in a room where she was, she鈥檇 screw up her face and yell, 鈥淢urderer!鈥� And then storm out. 

Look what I鈥檓 doing now, Firefly. The opposite of murder. 

September 25, 2023

I got another letter. Said similar stuff but then asked for a meeting at the lawyer鈥檚 office, and I went a few days later. The letter said I should bring a lawyer with me, but I don鈥檛 know any lawyers and didn鈥檛 feel like calling one. 

The office was downtown, with lots of wood paneling and leather chairs. Brett was there, in the guy鈥檚 office who sent the letter. He just nodded when I came in. 

鈥淢r. Elroy, you have been in violation of the county鈥檚 land-use regulations,鈥� the lawyer said, his voice oiled and smooth.  

鈥淵our land is intended for use in agriculture, and you seem to be doing nothing of the sort. As a result of your negligence to your land, my client has suffered damages from the excessive wildlife disturbing his crops.鈥�

There was a silence, as I thought about it. 

鈥淲hat do you mean by excessive wildlife?鈥� I said. 

鈥淭here鈥檚 deer out there every morning,鈥� Brett broke in. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e eating my seedlings. And the birds, too. So many damn birds. I just had my lowest yield in 15 years.鈥�

I shook my head. 

鈥淏ut it鈥檚 my land,鈥� I said. 

The lawyer smiled a thin smile. 

鈥淲ell, yes, but that doesn鈥檛 mean you can do anything you want with it. And the law says that parcel is to be used for agricultural use. I hope you understand.鈥�

I didn鈥檛 understand. But I didn鈥檛 get angry until I was driving home. I looked out the window and at the strip malls and fast food chains and parking lots with little bits of grass and trees in between. And beyond it, for miles, more asphalt and concrete with little bits of green in between. All the way to the ocean in either direction. 

As we walked out of the office, Brett had said, 鈥淚t鈥檚 because of you environmentalists that people like me can鈥檛 make a decent living anymore.鈥� 

I never thought of myself as an environmentalist. But Sadie was right. We did have too much. But, apparently, it was illegal to give any of it back. 

October 17, 2023 

I went out to the land today and just walked around. I wouldn鈥檛 say it鈥檚 pretty, especially now that it鈥檚 fall and the flowers have gone for months. The grasses are all scruffy and brown. The pigs are all brown and muddy and old. 

I think maybe what鈥檚 scary to some people is that I鈥檓 just letting it go. Brett is out there every day on his tractor, tilling or planting. I鈥檓 not. I鈥檓 just letting it be. I really don鈥檛 know what鈥檚 going to happen to it. Maybe that鈥檚 a little scary to be next to. 

On the night she died, Sadie was at my place for the week. Her mother and I had just bought her her first car, a used 2014 Honda Civic, after she鈥檇 spent a few months learning to drive on ours. Simple, easy to drive. Safe. Good gas mileage. I thought she鈥檇 love it. But she didn鈥檛. 

鈥淚 don鈥檛 want a car, Dad. I only learned to drive so I wouldn鈥檛 hurt your feelings. Do you even know what cars are doing to the Earth?鈥� she told me when I first showed it to her a week or two before. 

It鈥檇 been sitting in the driveway ever since, the keys still on the counter where she鈥檇 put them. Her mother had dropped her at my place. 

And she鈥檇 been sulking all week. She鈥檇 get like this in the winter. Couldn鈥檛 go outside except to tramp around the block in her snow boots. Plus, you know, being a teenager. 

I thought I might take her to the movies or something. She was sitting on the couch, lookin鈥� out the window. 

鈥淔irefly, you want to go鈥斺��

鈥淵ou call me that, but did you even know that fireflies are going extinct?鈥� she snapped. 

I balked. I didn鈥檛 know that. 

鈥溾�機ause there鈥檚 no more woods for them to live in. They can鈥檛 just live on sidewalks and front yards. But that鈥檚 all there is around here.鈥�

鈥淲ell, can鈥檛 we do something about鈥斺��

鈥淪ure, we could. But people like you never will. I鈥檓 not your firefly, Dad.鈥�

With that, she stormed out of the room. I sank back into the couch. I heard a car start up in the driveway a minute later. Huh, I thought, maybe she wants that thing after all. 

The phone rang 20 minutes later. 

October 30, 2023 

When I pulled up to the land this morning, there was a sheriff鈥檚 car in the rut where I usually park. He got out as I pulled in, and he was holding a brown packet in his hand. His name tag said Lt. Briggs. 

鈥淢orning,鈥� he said, as we approached each other, like we were friends. I nodded. 

鈥淚鈥檓 guessing you probably know what this is,鈥� he said, handing me the packet. I nodded again. 

I took the packet and could feel the heavy pages inside of it. This must be how all this ended. We stood there for a second, him looking off in the distance, me listening to the breeze. 

鈥淵ou know, I鈥檝e been driving by here for as long as you鈥檝e been doing this,鈥� Briggs finally said. 

鈥淵ou think I鈥檓 crazy too, probably,鈥� I said. 

He shook his head and crossed his arms and looked out over my scraggly land. 

I couldn鈥檛 say it was much wilder than a backyard, but just then, three ducks took off from the pond and beat their wings over our heads.

鈥淚 don鈥檛. I truly don鈥檛,鈥� he said after a while. 鈥淢y family鈥檚 lived around here for five generations. My great-great-grandfather was one of the men who cut down these woods and tilled the first farms. I used to take a lot of pride in that.鈥� 

鈥淏ut you don鈥檛 now?鈥� I said. 

鈥淥h, I do. But, my kids, they lose their minds when they see a deer. They don鈥檛 know anything about anything wilder than our backyard.鈥�

I looked out on the land. I couldn鈥檛 say it was much wilder than a backyard, but just then, three ducks took off from the pond and beat their wings over our heads. 

鈥淲ell, not everyone agrees,鈥� I said, holding up the brown packet. 

Briggs laughed. 

鈥淣o, clearly not,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ut have you talked to the land trust? Or the people at Stanton?鈥� 

I shook my head. 

鈥淚 haven鈥檛 been talking to much of anyone recently. Just been out here where it鈥檚 quiet.鈥�

He laughed again, a deep, throaty laugh. 

鈥淲ell, maybe you should give them a call. They might be able to help you more than the birds and deer.鈥� 

With that, he tipped his hat and strode back to his car, leaving me with the packet in my hand and the wind blowing in my ears. 

February 19, 2024 

Well, it鈥檚 settled then. The land is now a nature preserve. And it鈥檚 being absorbed by Stanton State Forest. 

The people at the land trust straightened it all out rather quickly. They paid me one dollar for the land. Then they transferred it to the state鈥檚 control. But not before they helped me secure the right to live and traverse the land for me and my ancestors for all time.

That last part was their lawyer鈥檚 words, not mine. But I like it. For all time. 

I鈥檓 building a cabin out there. It might be ready in a year. Maybe one day I鈥檒l move out there.  And I鈥檓 finally going to get around to the other pond once the freeze breaks. 

Then, trees. It鈥檚 time to plant trees. We鈥檒l have our forest yet, Firefly. Oaks, hickories, maples, dogwoods. I can just see the saplings shivering in the spring air. It鈥檚 beautiful. 

And the fence. I鈥檓 helping Brett build a fence around his land. It was part of the condition of the agreement for them to drop the lawsuit. It鈥檒l be tall enough to keep out most of the deer. 

I don鈥檛 blame him. The fact is, there鈥檚 no way for the wild to co-exist next to his rows and rows of soybeans. We wave to each other again. 

And the people at the state agreed to one more condition. They鈥檙e going to call this little patch the Sadie Elroy Preserve. 

August 4, 2031 

I watched the sun go down from my little porch in my little forest. The birds were singing: sparrows, mockingbirds, an owl a little later. 

The trees aren鈥檛 high or thick enough to block the view and cast much shadow yet, but one day they鈥檒l tower over this place and it鈥檒l be in shade all day long. 

There鈥檚 water striders on the pond, and birds dipping through to catch them. I saw two raccoons drinking from the other pond yesterday. A few turtles too, years and years after I鈥檇 introduced them. Day before that, it was a flash of fox fur in some of the low bushes. The soil, when I kneel down and cup it in my hands, is soft and loamy. Some nights, there are even fireflies. 

I walk the trails most mornings as the sun comes up and see what I can see. Every day, it鈥檚 something. I walk a lot slower these days, but that鈥檚 okay. 

Some days, in the quiet of the morning, when my mind is focused on a deer track or a birdsong, I can hear her laughing, off in the distance. 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.