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A LABOR OF LOVE by Renea Winchester
Creating the Apothecary Writing Cottage - A Labor of Love by Renea Winchester
In December, 2019, my father and I purchased my Granny’s farm. This acquisition included a 60s mobile home. From the beginning, I envisioned converting the structure into something Granny would have loved. Surely it wouldn’t take more than a year, fifteen months, tops.
I hear y’all laughing.
The Dream Begins:
As a writer, I often feel overwhelmed to the point of triggering the flight response. I want to run away to a quiet place, a place where I can abandon my duties as a wife and mother, and focus on words. At times, I feel my creativity dying beneath the weight of job duties, as if I am expending my best years doing remedial tasks, while abandoning the stories waiting to be told. Haven’t we all cleared our calendar and carved out a moment to create only to hear the whispers from a pile of dirty laundry?
Simply put, I believe every creative needs a place to hide, a place to sit still, breathe, and -dare I say it- rest. Am I the only one who feels blocked by emotional exhaustion?
Yes, I would turn this 600 foot mobile home into a secret place where stories would trickle down the creek, a place where I would collect these stories as I sat beneath a massive maple tree. My writing friends would love to be here, for a week, maybe more. They too needed a secret place to escape, of that I was certain.
As I looked at the original turquoise appliances and the brass hardware I said, “Just a good cleaning, a couple coats of paint, and new flooring, I’ll be done.
Obviously, I was clueless.
The Journey Begins:
Inside, portions of the floor were missing, but she had good bones and if I know anything about renovations it’s the importance of good bones. I hired a man on the spot after he took one look at the faded aluminum exterior and said, “Oh yes, I can make her beautiful again.”
One day I arrived bearing lunch to discover he had removed most of the exterior siding to replace the support beams. I tried to contain my shock, but could literally see through the structure. “There goes my life savings,” I thought and promised not to return until Friday when it was time to pay the man, in cash of course.
On Friday, the exterior was back in place, the walls reframed, the holes in the floor repaired. I paid this miracle worker and made a list of other projects. Just my luck, he was arrested for driving without a license and threatening law enforcement; he would later admit he’d driven for twenty years without a license.
Painting Problems:
I found a new worker, this one, an experienced painter. I insisted on restoring the exterior to the exact color I remembered, a delightfully cheery teal and white. After a trip to Sherwin Williams, he returned with primer, a few samples, and an estimate that made me consider selling my body to science to fund this project. Thousands of dollars later, the exterior was complete. I loved it.
Until this year, 2023, when I discovered he only primed half the building. Like with any creative project, doubt took hold. Should I even be trying to save this structure? I wondered while buying more paint. This wouldn’t be the first time I doubted my decision.
Wicked Wiring:
After one look at the antiquated electrical box with round glass fuses, new wiring was next. There was only one significant problem, if I wanted overhead lights, all of the ceiling must come down. The price to rehang sheetrock during the home-improvement boom made this impossible. The utilities ran along the floor inside a wooden box. I abandoned the idea of overhead lights and installed floor plugs. Lamps come cheap.
The wiring did not. Everything was moving along swimmingly until the electrician left a message, “The inspector issued a stop-work order. You need to prove you have a septic tank.”
He confessed he had botched the permitting when he applied for a “new service” instead of an “reconnect.”
It is to find original paperwork from 1960 in a town that didn’t keep the best records in the first place. My uncles -owners of Styles Brothers Septic System- installed the tank, but who in the Sam Hill had the paperwork? All the brothers were long-dead, as were my Granny and mother.
Weeks passed while I tore through every file mother ever kept, my anxiety grew daily. Why is this so hard? Do I need to stop pursuing this dream? Do I need to stop writing completely?
Creatives have a flair for the dramatic.
Then I Really Hit a Snag:
Just as the wiring was completed, spring rains set in. The roof leaked. I was devastated. All the money I invested would be wasted if I couldn’t keep rain out of the building. The roof was only 600 square ft; how much could a new one possibly cost?
The lowest bid came in at 30K. I was absolutely heartbroken.
“This is a sign,” I said to my BFF. “It’s time to walk away.”
“Or you can keep pushing,” she said. “You’ve come too far to quit now.”
I called every handyman I knew; each said the same thing, “Absolutely not.” My nephew helped me wrestle a blue tarp across the building. I drove home, defeated.
A month passed as I slipped into a depression. I’d let Granny down. Land and home prices were skyrocketing. I would lose this farm if I couldn’t make it profitable. Finally, I remembered someone I worked with in the 80s.
“Sure. I can getcha a roof,” Mitchell said. “Be there next week.”
This time, I wept tears of joy.
The roof is beautiful. Simply beautiful. This fall, Mitchell will use similar tin to underpin the building.
New Seeds Planted:
This year, I began teaching classes to those who are interested in learning the ways of medicinal plants. In the spring, Poppa climbed aboard the tractor and tilled up a new ground. For several years, I’ve grown heritage seeds for Sow True Seed, a woman-owned company. Without this farm, the Foxfire tomato (as an example) would be extinct, as would other crops vital to Appalachian and Cherokee Culture. As tender seedlings emerged a new idea took root.
I would plant beautiful flowers. I would welcome creatives to the land, artists, photographers also. Authors aren’t the only ones who desperately need to unplug and run away. The land that comforted my mother during her cancer battle, the land that raised my Granny’s six children, the land where beauty grows would inspire others.
It is quiet here. Except for a couple vehicles traveling up the gravel road to the adjacent farm, I sit on the deck and listen to the creek. I close my eyes and breathe. I find my center as hummingbirds fight over jewel weed nectar. Why wouldn’t someone want to stay here, alone, on the land that helped raise me?
This October, I welcomed my first artist in residence. Creatives of all genres are welcome to my little apothecary cottage farm in the way back woods. Less than 5 minutes from downtown Bryson City, North Carolina and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I know you’ll love listening to the stories the land whispers.
When Can I Visit The Farm?
The cottage is listed on Air B & B with a limited booking calendar. Welcome to Butterfly Cove Apothecary Cottage. I have poured every ounce of love I have into her. She’s devoid of television or internet, and bursting with peace and tranquility. Mention this article for special pricing.
