This is a story that begins with a muddy shoed boy who grew up exploring the forest and hills, these forests, those hills. Morrow Woods, the land he and his family have stewarded for five generations. Granville Ace, class of 95, he skipped like a stone across the country, then the world with his paper 1980s GPL library card (literally) in his back pocket, their phone number he’d memorized by heart. 

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Then there’s me, same mountains but just over the ridge and 2.5 hours of valley and elevation away, likely somewhere shoeless.  Feet hanging from a tree branch, or sprawled out in the grass below with toppled fat book stacks. Reading, writing. Nose to paper, pencil and pen in my hair. I found my way here (to these hills and this forest) in running shoes and enough willingness to trespass beyond his father’s gate, for the best foggy morning views in the region. 

 

After unknowingly crossing paths all over the country and captured together in single photo frames while living worlds apart Alex and I finally met by accident, running. 

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But the story of Stillwood House?  That starts as all good stories do in a stand-still-and-loss-time moment, uncertainty spinning wildly all around.

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2024-2025 kicked off with a cancer diagnosis for Alex.  Then lurched forward from one unrelated hard clock strike to the next across both our lives. 2024, 2025 split time into befores and afters.​ ​​

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Before we had both spent so much of our lives traveling, sometimes one week to the next, a few months here, an entire year there. Afterward, our tiny village, home, family, and community humbled us with beauty.

But oh, the gratitude that followed? It swelled with undimming invigoration.  ​

Forget bucket lists. We made overdue, overfull to-do lists with goals and dreams we'd stockpiled. 

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​Alex successfully ran for office. My book went under contract with Yale. We hiked three or four times a week, every week, everywhere. We fell in love with the heart curved shape of every fallen autumn leaf. We reveled in cozy cotton, wool and down filled duvets as snow and then rain fell from the sky by the feet. We remembered how lovely it felt to sit unplugged, to listen to music, to read books, to warm palms with hot mugs, and sip slow coffee.  

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Marking a return to Alex’s homestead we drew on the strength of old wood, deeply set roots, and the timeless footholds of the Alleghenies and Appalachians. ​We bought 542, our Stillwood House, named to honor his family’s legacy of maintaining the woods despite the pleas of developers. 

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​Stillwood House reflects what we value most: time, place, and the people we share them with.  Here is a place to slow down, to gather, and sink into and savor quality and simplicity.  

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It is a privilege to share this place with you, the land, and the village we love so much. We hope to bring to Stillwood House the renewed energy, unexpected discoveries, and spirit of connection in which we have found such meaning.