A town called Toonigh.

Well, the move is underway. Technically, we have been in the new house for 4 days now. Boxes and packing paper cover everything. We’ve built the dogs a small, fenced-in area to run in and the three bantam chickens are temporarily living in a dog crate on the front porch.

The people here seem to be nice, which after living in town can be a surprise. Not that our previous home didn’t have nice people, but you had to find them – you didn’t come across them in your daily routine. Let’s hope that this surprise continues.

Toonigh. So the new house is on the far outer edge of Metro Atlanta. The area we moved to has been known as several names: Toonigh, Lebanon, and lastly Woodstock. Honestly, this post is less about a moving update and more about the town name, which I find fascinating.

This area was originally Cherokee land, and quickly after gold was found in North Georgia, the government kicked the Cherokee out. The area was home to many Cherokee Removal Forts, and was unfortunately the start of the Trail of Tears.

Wikipedia.com has the following information on the source of “Toonigh”.

According to Georgia Place-Names by Kenneth Krakow, the name Toonigh is probably derived from the Cherokee Indian word “Tooantuh,” which means “spring frog” and was also the name of a Cherokee chief. A popular legend has it that the place was given its name because it was “too nigh” Woodstock and Holly Springs to become a full-fledged town of itself. Another story tells that the train station building – assembled elsewhere and delivered via flatbed rail car – was originally set “too nigh” to the railroad track.

I’d love to find out the true source of the name, but it will probably be a mystery forever.

Ok, enough rambling about place-names. It’s time to plan for next week, when we move the chicken coop across Atlanta to the new house. Hopefully the girls will get a bigger run, but we will have to see what happens next week.

Until then be good.


Relocating and renaming the mini-homestead.

There are tons of quotes and wisdom about changes out there.  How good it can be, how it is a chance for growth, for a new start -hopefully these are all true, because the decision has been made to leave the mini-homestead and relocate to a different part of Atlanta.

Dirty Rascal Mini Homestead is a quarter-acre spot on the southwest side of metro Atlanta. It is the burbs, mostly built in the 30’s and 40’s, but, due to the cities growth, is considered “in-town”.  Our move will take us to the northern suburbs – closer to where I work, and into an area that for me is more “suburban” than what I am used to. Of course there are pro’s and con’s, but over the last year the pro’s list grew longer.  It’s a very different part of town and I worry that I’m moving away from my people. The people that barter with, who will drive around with me looking for lost dogs or will chat with me about venison chili recipes.  One pro is that it will be easier to get out of the city than where   The chickens will be going with me, actually everything will be going with me other than the garden plot, a good amount of plants and a few trees. Yes, I would take the trees with me if i could: the redbud, the apple trees that decided to produce this year, and the sugar maple especially.

The birds will be the hardest to leave. When I moved in, early in 2007, there were no bushes or plantings – just a grass lot with a chain link fence surrounding it. Over the years I added water features and plants that would attract birds, and now you cannot go outside without seeing birds everywhere. It is a Certified Wildlife Habitat, which you can learn more about by visiting The National Wildlife Federation. Luckily, I have a neighbor that also enjoys birds, so I will be funneling some of my suet and seed her way to make sure the birds are fed. (By the way, I know the critters will be ok, this just makes me feel needed, and lessens the guilt).

Two of the stray cats will be going with me as well – Mr. Cat and Miss Kitty. The neighbors daughter named Mr. Cat. I kept the them and named Miss Kitty accordingly.  This is a more tricky endeavor since I am allergic to cats. Since I inherited them from the neighbor a few years ago they have lived in a doghouse in my front yard, and under the house in the winter. I feed them, so they are basically mine, and I can’t abandon them at this point.

This means that 2 adults (1 being a wannabe farmer), 3 dogs, 3 chickens and 2 cats will soon be calling a new (and what I consider “fancy”) neighborhood home soon. Maybe everyone can wish us, and them, luck in this change.

What does this mean for the blog? Probably not a lot. The blog is less about making an urban homestead than I originally planned, and more about old, vintage things: whether it be methods, tools, ideas, etc. That will continue to be my focus, but I do plan on making a name change to “Mark’s Old Timey”, which I think will be more encompassing and will allow me to try new things.

Let’s do this!





“Mountain Economy”. It’s finally complete!

So I went and wrote a short story.

Appalachia is the inspiration. Though I have lived in Georgia for close to 20 years, I still consider myself a West Virginian.  There’s no denying that growing up there made me who I am, and at the same time that I love telling people about Cranberry, Sandstone and Holcomb, and even worked in West Virginia tourism for a while, I know that I can’t go back. That story is complicated, but that’s what the state is about. It’s complex, and a few articles or recent soundbites do not begin to explain it. Whatever you imagine when you hear “West Virginia” – it’s probably there. It’s opposite is also there.

Enough rambling. Here is the story. Feedback always welcome!

Mountain Economy (AKA Matthew’s Story)

Mark C. 2018 


Matthew knew there was work to do when his father woke him up on Saturday morning. His bedroom was chilly, and his father’s monotone “rise and shine” was harsh compared to his mom’s gentle wake up calls during the week.  He wished he could stay in bed later, but knew there was no need arguing with his dad. He pulled himself out of bed, put on a pair of old jeans and made his way to the kitchen, moving faster when he heard cereal hitting an empty bowl. His little sister, Amber, was sitting in her high-chair, a bowl of colorful “O’s” scattered on the tray in front of her.

“Hi,” he said to his mom and dad who were preoccupied with chores. His dad, Randy, was leaning against the counter. His mom, Sherry, wiped milk from Amber’s face. He sat down and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Morning, Bub.”  His mom added as she grabbed a jug of milk and filled his bowl.  “Make sure you put on your heavy coat. There’s a frost on.” She sat, finally able to enjoy her own breakfast. A few seconds passed before Matthew noticed the silence and glanced at her. Her stare was partially blocked by the dark hair that had fallen from her ponytail, but it was clear she was waiting for a response.

“Yes, mom.” he answered, paying more attention to the faint noise of the weather forecast playing in the living room.

“Thanks, Bub.”

While Matthew ate breakfast, Randy gathered tools and hoses that they would need for their work. He made several trips out the backdoor and to the shed, back through the house, and out the front door to the truck. Each time, the spring on the storm door squealed and pulled the door closed with a crash.  Each time, Matthew jumped. Still sleepy, but starting to wake, he shuffled to the living room and dropped onto the couch. As he leaned over to tie his shoes, he heard the truck start. Dad was ready to go.

The drive was quiet. Randy wasn’t much of a talker, so Matthew gazed out the truck window, hoping to see a rabbit or turkey leaving the woods to forage for food. The grass where the sun hadn’t hit yet was white and frozen stiff.  He tried his best to ignore the overwhelming smell of black walnuts that Randy had picked up at work. The walnuts rolled under Matthew’s feet, and made bracing himself around the turns a chore. The old blue and silver pickup made its way up Smith Creek and turned up the old logging road that worked its way up to the mine. They came to a stop in a flat covered with fading, pale-yellow goldenrod. A rusty sign post was the only hint that a road once carried trucks of timber to the sawmill below.

Randy surveyed the area while Matthew sat in the open door of the truck, enjoying the warmth of the heater as long as possible. He fidgeted with the peeling Batman patch on his shoe, a bad habit, much like his dad’s nail-biting.

“Dad, there’s nothing here. What are we doing?” Matthew asked,  as the tattered Batman logo fell off his shoe and into the frosty leaves.

“Gotta work…won’t take long. You’re old enough to help now,” his dad said as he handed Matthew a backpack. The supplies were almost too heavy for him, but he refused to admit it to his dad. Another backpack, the toolbox and a white tank were unloaded next. Carefully, Randy stepped over the bank and out of view. The cold ground was slick, and the trail was more of a small break in the brush than an actual trail. His grey coat kept getting caught on the briers. Little grey strings fell from the scratches.

“How’s school? Are you liking your teacher any better now?”

“She’s OK.  She don’t like Jamie though. He talks too much and she yells at him.”

“You do what she says,” Randy told him, making sure he understood it was an order.

Matthew gave him a slow, slightly sarcastic, “I will.”  

“That Jamie’s trouble.”

The weight of the backpack  threw off Matthew’s balance as he made his way down the slick bank. He held the pack in front of his face as he clumsily slid down the last few feet, using it to shield his face from stray branches and briers. The trail met the train tracks above Price Creek and continued on over the hill.  

“Bring your backpack here.” Randy unloaded a mass of blue hoses from his pack. “And go sit on those rocks over there by the redbud tree. Don’t look at the fire when I get this torch lit. It’ll be too bright.”

“OK. What do you want me to do?”

“Just go, sit and wait for me.”  

Matthew returned to the spot he stared from earlier and looked out at the houses by the creek, noticing the backyards and what people had in them. It was interesting to see what people keep out back. Old campers, old cars, old dogs and little white, triangle shaped houses with roosters sitting in front of and on top of them. He had only seen the houses from the viewpoint of the school bus, only the fronts of the houses and the small front yards.

He walked farther down the tracks and sat on a prominent rock by the redbud trees. Behind him he heard a pop and the low hiss of his dads torch. He wanted to defy Randy, to turn and watch the work, but he didn’t.  He watched the tiny cars and trucks driving along the creek, which quickly became boring. He picked at the hole in his shoe, and remembered that he had forgotten to pick up the Batman patch that fell off earlier. He turned to tell his dad about the realization-but quickly remembered not to turn toward the torch and stopped himself. From here, he could see the white church  that his grandma attended and the road that cut back to the coal mine where his dad worked until last Fall. A steady parade of cars pulled into the parking lot, each one dropping off well-dressed church ladies, their arms full of boxes and plastic bags. He wondered if they were preparing for a birthday party. A few minutes later, one of the old ladies passed through the front doors and tied three pale blue balloons to the hand rail.

“It’s a boy!”, Matthew mumbled to himself, losing interest in the happenings of the church.

The consistent hiss of the torch followed by the clank of metal continued while Matthew thought about the church, the Batman patch from his shoe, and the church again. He collected a handful of rocks that caught his attention and stuffed them into the pocket of his grey coat. He threw a few rocks at a poplar stump, and tried his hand at making towers out of flat rocks. When the towers collapsed, he used the flat side of one to carve his initials on the rock serving as his perch. As he finished scratching  “R” on the rock, Randy called out “Ready?”. Matthew quickly added a “J” to the initials. It was faint compared to the other letters, but he stood and admired his “MRJ”, then ran down to where his dad was working.

Randy was tired from having organized his work into scattered piles where the parallel tracks used to be. There was a pile for tools, a pile of track cut into long pieces, a pile of short pieces, and a small pile of spikes off to the side. He sat on the edge of the ribbon of rock that the tracks were built on, resting before starting the next chore. Though there was a frost on, he sweated from leaning over the torch for so long.  As Matthew reached the piles, his dad unscrewed the lid of a blue plastic thermos and offered him a drink of water. The thermos was too big, making it hard for Matthew to drink without spilling. He handed the cooler back, Randy took another drink and put the thermos back in the backpack.

“We’ll take the tools up last. I’ll take the big pieces, you take the small pieces.” Randy said. “Can you get it?”

Matthew jumped to the pile, excited to be doing anything other than sitting on a rock, and struggled to pick up the I-shaped piece of steel almost as long as his arm. It was more stable once in his arms, and he responded to his dad with a labored “Yep”.

“We need to carry them up to the truck. Be careful going up. There’s no need to hurry.”

Randy threw a backpack on his back and started to the trail with a larger piece of the track. Matthew walked ahead of him. Going up the hill was easier than coming down. The frost had melted, and the damp leaves gave better traction than damp and frozen leaves.

Matthew grew tired after a few trips carrying the track, then began carrying the backpacks up on his back, which freed his hands to grab saplings and logs to pull himself up the hill. Randy finished carrying the steel and went back for the tank, which he told Matthew to leave for him.

The backpacks were last to go into the bed of the truck.  While Matthew looked for his Batman patch in the grass, Randy opened the thermos and took a drink.

“You ready?”, asked Matthew, barely looking up from the back of the truck.

“I can’t find Batman.”

Randy shuffled backpacks and hoses around in the back of the truck. “Leave it. You need new shoes anyway.”

Matthew continued searching as if he didn’t hear his dads comment. The tailgate slammed shut.

“Hey!” Randy called with a stern, dry voice. “The leaves.”

“The leaves?”

“The tools were in the leaves when we got here because the grass was wet. You check there?” Matthew’s eyebrows lifted as he realized he was searching the wrong area.

Matthew fiddled with the patch as they drove down the hill to the main road near the little white houses.

“What’re those tracks for, dad?”

“We’ll get a good price for them.

“What about the train? Don’t the train need them?”

“Trains don’t come through anymore.”

“Is it stealing? Someone took Jamie’s 4-wheeler and his dad’s tool box.”

“It’s not stealing.”

“But what if the train wants to come through again and they need that track?”

“It’s not stealing.” Randy’s voice was tense. “It’s like….like blackberries. You like blackberries. It’s like blackberries. The mountain has blackberries and the mountain has tracks and when you need them you pick them.”

Matthew thought for a few minutes about blackberries and train tracks.

“Would we get into trouble if -?” Randy smacked the steering wheel and released a defeated sigh.

“Matthew! You..”, pausing and looking away from his son, “…you need new shoes.”


Is there an old charcoal iron under that ribbon?

Today I’d like to show off another interesting thrift store find that’s on the list to be fixed up. “Fixed up” is good term since I have no idea how to do this, and restoration implies a plan or expectation of a good result.

So, I believe this is an antique charcoal iron that has been painted to serve as a home décor item. The metal and wooden handle have been painted, and ribbon and fabric has been glued to the iron. Here is a similar, unaltered iron. If you would like to read more about charcoal irons, check out Oldandinteresting.com.

The rooster at the front of the iron is actually a lever that holds the iron closed. The iron would hold hot coals, allowing it to stay warm and be used longer than previous irons. These were solid and would be heated, and once cool would have to be heated up again. The coals, along with the vents on the side of the iron, kept the iron hot longer.

Of course, it could also be a reproduction. This seems like an odd item to reproduce or fake, but it’s always possible. Either way it’s an interesting piece that I look forward to experimenting on.

How do I remove the paint? I put a thick poultice of dish soap and water on the ribbon for a few hours, trying to dissolve the glue, but it didn’t really work. I tried scratching the paint and ribbon, but it seemed too harsh on the metal.


First eggs from the bantam Sebrights!

Over the weekend we went up to the Smoky Mountains for a car event at Fontana Lodge. If you haven’t been to this area, you should check it out – especially if you are into driving. The Tail of the Dragon and The Cherohala Skyway are both awesome drives, and the Cherohala is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. I love this area, but I’m rambling – let’s talk chickens.
Upon getting home, I visited with the dogs and then walked out to check on the chickens, and was greeted with 3 fresh eggs – the first they have laid since I got them a couple of months ago. The three brown eggs are bantam eggs, the large white egg is from the grocery, and is about 3x or 4x the bantam size.
Silver Sebrights aren’t known as great layers, so we aren’t sure how many/how often to expect yet, but three eggs are a good start.

My great grandfathers singletree yoke.

It’s interesting to me how different my dad’s upbringing in West Virginia differs from mine. Though almost everyone had a substantial garden growing up, not many people had livestock. I recall passing a few horses often, and a cow here or there, but had no interaction with them. It seems like that aspect of farming faded away in that part of southern West Virginia, but for dad it was different. He grew up around chickens, cattle, mules and sheep. Occasionally he brings me tools from the farm, like this yoke that belonged to my great grandfather Collins and used on their land in Raleigh County, West Virginia. I’m unsure of it’s age, but my great grandfather lived from 1871-1957.

I believe this is a singletree yoke, probably used behind mules to plow the garden. I haven’t found much information on them, perhaps they aren’t that uncommon, but here are a few videos showing them in action.

Ox logging using a single yoke Highland cattle 2017 02 15

Practicing long-reining and hitching up with a single tree for the first time

And here are the photos of my Great Grandfathers yoke.

Old yoke used on farm in West Virginia.
My great grandfather used this yoke on his farm in West Virginia.

Old yoke used on farm in West Virginia.Detail of old farm yoke.Old yoke used on farm in West Virginia.Detail of damage to end of old yoke.

Thrift store box: old, reproduction, import or just neat?

Posts have been few and far between lately, mostly due to a new job (woot!) and some additional community work I’ve taken on. Luckily, I can work from home often, which thrills me because years of a 1.5 hour one-way commute have left me impatient and grouchy. At least I’m blaming it on the commute.

Either way, the new office is near a couple of my favorite thrift stores. Be prepared for an uptick in “Look what I found!” posts.

Recently I found a small box at the store that has confused me. It’s nothing special, I brought it home because I liked it, but after getting it home I started to look at the construction, which is really different. It could be old, but reproductions and imported items sometimes make the age harder to assess.

I’ve included some pics of the box. What do you think? old, reproduction or import?