SEPTEMBER 6, 2021 – During a woodland walk yesterday in the reaches behind the Red Cabin, my wife and I encountered a formal sign marking the entrance to Grindstone Woods Conservancy, 70-acres of undeveloped land that lie behind us and adjoining property owners along the northwest shore of Grindstone Lake. The sign was crafted by our neighbor and fellow founding member of the Conservancy, John B., who also owns every wood-working tool and supporting apparatus known to humankind.
That was 30 years ago. Today the sign is weather worn, and several of the wood letters that John affixed to the sign are missing, though the treated-wood posts are as sturdy as ever. I remember well the flurry of calls, meetings, and follow-up calls—before the advent of email and ubiquity of mobile phones (let alone smartphones)—that led to acquisition of the 70 acres and establishment of a conservancy to protect the land in perpetuity.
John’s late wife, Marilyn, sounded the alarm early one summer Saturday afternoon. A former journalist and veritable gadfly, she’d discovered that the owner of the land behind us had sold it to a developer hell bent on subdividing, building “30-day wonders,” making a buck in the spirit of American free enterprise and wrecking the solitude and seclusion that we all held so dear.
My wife and I had connections to the owner. Several of us had the real estate and corporate law background to put a deal together and structure it. Nearly everyone affected was motivated to toss a contribution into the hat. In a panic, but without revealing it overtly, I called the owner, told her not to go anywhere, then drove like a maniac to her home in nearby Hayward. On her kitchen table was a signed offer from the developer. The owner had not yet countersigned. After recovering from a near-faint, I convinced the owner to reject the deal with the developer and accept an offer from our group. Exactly a week later, we closed the deal. In the interim, another neighbor had formed a conservancy, which took title to the 70 acres—subject to restrictions we etched in stone so that the land can never be disturbed.
As I contemplated the sign that has barely lasted 30 years, I wondered about the next 30 years. Who will walk those woods and what will they know of the story behind their preservation? By then will the sign have succumbed altogether to the elements and implacable time? Will the posts be the only remnants of the once-bright, beautifully crafted monument to a collective, whirlwind effort one week during the summer of 1991?
Today I plan to construct another sign—one of my own design for placement at a corner entrance to Björnholm Trädgård, an area covering about 15 acres within our family’s own informal “conservancy.” Like John’s sign, it won’t last forever, but I can hope that the woods around it will stand as a monument to the resilience of life.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
