The term "Farm" is a relatively new title for the 2,100-acre property. Neatly nestled into a nook of the Cumberland Plateau, the property has been referred to as home for much longer than we even know. It was called home by the various roaming hunter-gatherers that utilized the property, using a landscape that was drastically different than the human memory knows — a valley of old growth, a forest of large mammals — although figurative dinosaurs to us, a meal to them. It remained that way for 6,000 years, a place for sustenance.
It wasn't until the Woodland Period that the word "Farm" can be used even remotely accurately.
At that time, there was a large population of Native First Peoples inhabiting McDonald Farm. It was this version of the property that got its first glimpse of crop cultivation — its first taste of culture, religion and a sustained population of humans.
Once again, it was called home — a place of safety, comfort; a place where life flourished and death crept along in the tall grass, stalking its next victim, only for each strike to make life more meaningful, worth the weight of
each breath.
It was home for the Mississippian wanderers, cozied by a campfire, warmed by the thought of what game they might pursue the next day — chasing deer up its creeks, elk in its forest and turkey up its trees. It was home to the wagon-laden pioneers, braving a new country full of mystery, leaving behind their old dominions for a new — left to ponder what might be around each corner: A hostile individual? A dangerous road? A flooded creek?
It was temporarily home to the Union-loving man — the scared 17-year-old who just learned what it's like to kill a man, to come face to face in combat, to feel hungry, alone, sickly, with no one to look after you. To the Union man that made the daring decision, heart racing as he leaves his family in hostile hands to take up Col. Clift’s offer — to fight for his beliefs in a United States. To the Southern 19-year-old, pressured by the thought of winning glory and honor, by his father’s wise words to protect their home from the invaders, by the thought of winning over Mary Ann from down the road. To the fiery, gray-clad invaders from Alabama that sought to sustain a way of life that was just… unsustainable. To the enslaved family that lived with James R. McDonald for over 20 years before being freed by him at the outbreak of war.
It was home to a growing family, one that left a mark on Tennessee, brought forth a change in times when change was needed. To a family with a legacy of friendship, progress and hard work.
It is still a home today — home to 120 species of birds, home to thousands of bees and butterflies, home to three creeks full of crystal-clear water, home to black bear and deer, to the river otter and crayfish, to the 250-year-old Champion Tree and 130-year-old Coke Ovens.
Today, it is home to you, the Hamilton County resident. This is your backyard. It’s time to treat it as such. McDonald Farm is not just a farm — it’s home to your history, has been for 200 years; will be for 200 more.
I can’t think of anything more special than that.
Mason M. Eslinger