Hello! This is Courtney from vintch. I live in a little cottage way out in the country with my husband
Robert, our dog Pablo and our ’71 camper bus whom I secretly refer to as Dorothy in my mind, but
Robert believes has more of a male energy.
There’s something that defines me:
I live in the type of town most people leave.
A tiny community nestled between three mid-sized cities, you can drive through Wallburg, North Carolina in just a few miles. And a majority of those miles will be through farmland. Through hills of corn and soybeans and tobacco. You’ll pass old men sitting on plastic chairs outside the gas station, and little brick homes scattered along the side of the road.
When I tell people I never left, that I still live here, only two miles from where I was raised, they always ask why. There are better job opportunities in Raleigh. A better nightlife in Greensboro. Artsy coffee shops and better restaurants in Winston-Salem.
But when I sit on my glider at night, I can see the stars. There are no city glows in the way and no high-rises. Life moves slower here, and it’s savored. I work in a big city, about half an hour away. When I come home, the only thing I want to do is slip on some shorts and go for a walk to my parents’ house with Robert and Pablo.
Because when I look around, I don’t see the missed opportunities. The potential that just wasn’t. The fact that I could be in a bigger house, with a bigger paycheck and a bigger career if we hadn’t returned here.
Rather, I see a town rooted in love and grounded in a sense of community. In the idea that rising with the sun is virtuous and staying out until sundown picking tomatoes and digging up potatoes is not a day wasted. And I see beauty in the structures and little spaces and open places of home.
I wouldn’t be me anywhere else.
I feel it when the word “y’all” rises from my lips. When I pull on my worn tank top and go outside to pull weeds at seven in the evening. When hydrangea blooms and strawberry picking season remind me that summer is here. My roots are here. Chosen and planted for me long before I had any say in the matter. And I’m bound to this land. These people and these old buildings. And I’ll raise my children in the sunshine and wheat fields, and hope against all hope that they’ll return to me. And tothis place. This special, sacred, simple space.