“I felt an exact traction with this country in each twig and clod of it as it stood, not as it stood past me from a car, but to be stood in the middle of, or drawn through, passed, on foot, in the plain rhythm of a human being in his basic relation to his country. Each plant that fluted up in long rows out of the soil was native to its particular few square inches of rootage, and held relationship among these others to the work and living of some particular man and family.”

 — James Agee, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men

How do we build for the dignity of this place, of places like it, but unlike it (for each place is its own)? How do we build to honor the human connections to their rootage, established in their own soil? We look to the very timber and hands grown on this soil, watered in the storms that blow northeast in the spring. Where others see a house off the roads they wander, we see a home, one that affords living gracefully, capturing summer breezes and moving with the breath of the bodies within to meet their needs and dreams. That home affords a foundation of ownership, standing on the very clay underneath.