The Power of Place

On a balmy, sun-drenched morning, I turned off State Road 301 in north-central Florida onto the road leading toward Cross Creek and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings Historic State Park.  It felt like being transported back a century, the road winding through a landscape seemingly untouched by the hurried pace of modern life.

Walking through the rusty gate, I took in the orange groves, the old homestead, the farmyard, and the tall, open barn. Marjorie’s cracker-style home had a wide, tidy porch and an aura of resilience and hardiness. Chickens and mallards roamed freely in the open spaces. The oaks, their branches draped in thick Spanish moss, created an enveloping canopy, like a sanctuary of stillness.

A docent dressed in simple 1930s-era farm clothing greeted me at the barn and led me toward the house. On the breezy front porch, time seemed to stand still. The furnishings were modest but tasteful. I felt an almost magnetic draw to Marjorie’s typewriter. It sat on a bare cypress wood table on the porch overlooking the grove in a spot where Marjorie marked the changing seasons and watched days begin and end as she crafted masterpieces like The Yearling and Cross Creek, Marjorie’s memoir about her life on this wild land.

Outside, the landscape unfolded like one of Rawlings’ own sentences, full of life and texture. I followed the sandy hammock trail lined with palmettos and ancient orange trees. In the cool of the shade, the forest floor was carpeted in soft, green moss.  It was quiet and still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the rat-tat-tat of a brilliant, red-crested pileated woodpecker.

Walking back toward the house, the park seemed to wrap itself around me like a homespun quilt. What made this place remarkable wasn’t just its natural beauty or its historical significance. It was the palpable feeling of connection—to Marjorie, to the land, and to the stories that seemed to grow out of this very soil. I felt inspired, my mind humming with ideas and reflections.

Before leaving, I paused under a towering oak tree and looked out over the farmyard. It was easy to see why Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings had chosen this place, why she had written so passionately about it. It isn’t just a tribute to her legacy; it’s a living reminder of the power of place. To stand here on these grounds is to understand that stories don’t just come from within us; they grow from the very world around us.