Chapter 1: A Leap of Faith

In 1836, Caroline Kirkland and her husband William embarked on a bold adventure, leaving their familiar surroundings behind. With six children in tow and a wagon filled with household items, they traveled toward a piece of land they had purchased on speculation. Their goal was not just to establish a new home but also to create a thriving mill town they named Pinckney, in memory of William's late brother.

As Kirkland recounted her early experiences in this untamed land, she vividly described her first encounter with Michigan's infamous mudholes. Climbing down from the wagon, she stepped into the damp wilderness, wearing delicate slippers meant for social gatherings back in New York, ill-suited for the marshy terrain of her new environment.

She humorously recalled a man in a coonskin cap who appeared seemingly out of nowhere, probing the mudhole with a pole. His conclusion was disheartening: the mud was too deep for their wagon to cross, forcing them to find another route.

In a moment of frustration, I reflected on my own life, feeling trapped in my small town in western Maryland. Dreaming of a fresh start, I confided to a friend, “I wish I could just vanish and begin anew somewhere else.” Little did I know, that wish would soon become a reality.

Chapter 2: A New Beginning

A few weeks later, I accepted a position at a university in southeastern Michigan. Leaving my lifelong home was a gamble, a bet on a brighter future than what I had previously known.

I quickly became the new Americanist at the university, tasked with teaching early American literature. Many of my students were future educators, preparing to teach English in local high schools. It was essential for them to be acquainted with Michigan's historical authors.

My introduction to Caroline Kirkland’s memoir, "A New Home, Who’ll Follow?" came during a graduate seminar on environmental writing at West Virginia University. In my move to Michigan, I discovered I was now living just a short drive from Pinckney, where the Kirklands had founded their town.

As I prepared to guide my students through Kirkland's narrative, I felt a connection to her journey. She had ventured from the East Coast to what was then considered the frontier, striving to redefine her sense of home. Similarly, I had left my East Coast roots to settle in the Midwest, retracing her steps to the land she once called home.

Traveling alone and establishing my residence on the outskirts of Detroit, I embraced my inner pioneer. While my journey was made by car along convenient highways, the essence of adventure mirrored Kirkland’s experience.

Chapter 3: The Complexities of Community

Kirkland found the local inhabitants to be rather unrefined and lacking in sophistication. She believed that their company could tarnish the reputations of the East Coast speculators investing in the area. Her memoir often balanced between light-hearted jests and sharp critiques of the frontier's population.

Writing under the pseudonym Mary Clavers, she fictionalized the name of the village her family founded as Montecute, hoping to conceal her identity from her Michigan neighbors. Despite her attempts to remain anonymous, her book achieved significant popularity in New York, establishing her among literary greats like Charles Dickens and Edgar Allan Poe.

Upon my arrival in Michigan, I encountered a well-educated and refined population that initially intimidated me. Reflecting on my humble Appalachian background, I felt like an outsider. Perhaps I was facing the descendants of the original pioneers, whose perseverance established a legacy that valued the very aspects of life that pioneers had to forsake: education, culture, and refinement.

As I settled into an apartment east of Ann Arbor and began my role at a small university, I pondered how a solitary woman from modest beginnings could find her place in this new community.

Chapter 4: The Legacy of Kirkland

Kirkland’s memoir eventually reached her neighbors, but it was met with resentment and hostility. Ultimately, she and her husband left Pinckney in 1843, and it was not surprising that when I sought signs of the original Kirkland settlement, I found none. The town seemed eager to disassociate from its founding matriarch, and her unflattering portrayals lingered in the collective memory.

Despite its brief acclaim in the early literary world, "A New Home" faded into obscurity until recently, when historians and feminist scholars began to rediscover its significance. Kirkland's narrative serves as a poignant reminder of women's roles in shaping domesticity during the nineteenth century, as well as the challenges they faced when attempting to cultivate a sense of home in uncharted territories.

What connects Caroline Kirkland and me? Beyond our similar journeys from the East Coast to Michigan, there is a shared understanding of home as a construct that requires intention and effort.

Creating a new home involves engaging with the land and its people. It begins with simple elements: a table, meals, a sense of security, a place to rest. A new home is built from the remnants of past lives—books, cherished items, and the languages we carry with us.

To establish a new home, we must immerse ourselves in the experiences of others. Regardless of the complexities involved, we carve out our space among our neighbors, forging a new identity in a landscape that challenges and inspires us.