Jeanne was home alone the day the real estate agent dropped by. It was a gloriously cold Saturday morning in January, the sky was brilliant white and the snow crunched under Max Staine's feet as he walked up the driveway. Jeanne saw him, was waiting for him. Kevin was at work and the kids were in town for a sleepover with friends. It was a rare, quiet Saturday morning. Jeanne put down the dishcloth and ran her hands through her hair. She breathed deeply and waited for the doorbell to ring.

Kevin had met the agent too, the week before at the Community Centre, but it was Jeanne who took his card. Max Staines, the card read. The picture of the agent didn't look like he did in person, the night she and Kevin spoke to him at the concert.

The Saturday before they were crammed into the Plater's Corners Community Centre to see a country rock band that Kevin had heard was good. A group of city people who had moved to the Mountain brought in big name bands from the city to play shows at the old Community Centre. They promoted the concerts to other city folk and weekenders in the area, and the bands, it was said, loved to come up and play the small, rustic room. Jeanne told Kevin she found the band to be loud and everything seemed washed out in a blur of noise. Kevin yelled to her that it was called Indie Music, a different style. There was no one at the show they knew until Max Staines introduced himself to Jeanne during the break.

"Do you folks live up here on the Mountain?" Max Staines asked while still shaking Jeanne's hand.

"Sure do, born'd and raised here," Kevin cut in.

"Ya, it's crazy what's gone on up here, with the price of property and all. Prices are through the roof, I tell you. You guys own your own home?"

Kevin later told Jeanne he was pretty sure the guy was just making small talk but made sure he didn't let the man out of his sight. He appeared pleasant enough in his black jeans and tight gray sweater; a little younger than they were, he looked like he fit right in with the crowd at the show. Jeanne seemed to enjoy talking to the man and when Kevin returned from the bar with a fresh beer, Max Staines had his hand on Jeanne's shoulder as he shouted something in her ear. Then the drummer clicked his sticks together, counted four, and the band kicked off into their next set. Kevin and Jeanne left the hall soon after, before the band had finished.

Among those who lived on the Mountain, Jeanne and Kevin's relationship was held up to be nothing less than perfect. The locals up here understood whenever the couple appeared at a community social event or at a friend's Buck and Doe party, they arrived together, danced together, and shared laughs with their friends Dan and Karri. Kevin never got too drunk yet always had a good time. Seldom were they the first to leave, nor the last, and when they did go it was after a round of cheery "good-byes" and "see yous laters" and "be good nows". Kevin's arm was always around Jeanne as they turned and waved to the friends and relatives at the New Sussex Legion Hall or the Community Centre in Plater's Corners, saying goodbye to the others who lived, and whose families have always lived, up here on the Mountain. Salt of the earth people.

Their home was a quaint, raised bungalow built in the seventies on a ten-acre parcel severed off the old Moore property. It wasn't much, but since Kevin put in new windows, it was much cozier. Sure, the kids complained that it was draughty when the wind blew from the North, but as Jeanne would tell them: imagine what it was like for your great-grandparents, coming up here to build a log cabin and work the land by hand in the old days, up here in the Queen's Bush.

"Did they really call it the Queen's Bush?" one of the kids, likely Jamie, asked.

"Sure did." Kevin chuckled. "The land was thick with trees. And smelly and dirty."


Jeanne jumped in: "It was bushland given to settlers by the Queen of England, that's why it was called that. Now you kids go get washed up for dinner, okay?" And Jamie and Dana ran off, hungry for the meatloaf or spaghetti or beef stew that would be a weeknight meal in the Munro household.

One thing you can say was Kevin and Jeanne looked after their kids. They ate well, had everything they needed to get by and come the weekend, if Kevin wasn't working, they'd go snowmobiling or riding four-wheelers, or deer hunting, or help Donny with the farm, or Old Papa with his garden. There was so much to do. The children were never without a parent or a grandparent. That's the way they do things up here on the Mountain.

It's not really a mountain, of course. An escarpment, technically, would be the proper term. Millions of years ago, a massive force lifted the limestone basin from the floor of an ancient sea and bent the edges upwards to form a huge bowl, the sides of which formed the rock outcropping they call "the Mountain". It's a barrier, a divide between the fertile loam deposits on the plains below—land perfect for settlement and roads and golf courses—and the rugged country above. People up here respect the land. They understand what they can do with it and know what is just plain foolish.

There's a strong sense of the natural world up here on the Mountain, a belief that the goodness of the people is somehow connected to the purity of the land. Drive west along the Second Line towards Gord Murray's place and you'll feel it too: climb out of the hollow by the creek and you'll see jagged shale ridges appear on both sides of the road; you'll feel like you're in a tunnel, a cave, surrounded by the very rock and stone of creation; you'll feel the scouring of glaciers and the pressure of the earth's folding and faulting, the pelting of rain and snow and ice, the movement of the earth itself; then, as you downshift to climb to the summit, you'll break free from the darkness of the rock and see above you nothing but the heavens, and as the road levels you'll drive to where the blue of the sky meets the infinite blue of the great lake stretching forever before you and you'll believe in the immensity of the world and in the power of the ages that have shaped it; you will believe this land was made for you, and your role here, as small and insignificant as you may feel, has a purpose: you are a part of the land, and on your shoulders rests the responsibility of working it, caring for it and keeping it safe.

Jeanne and Kevin were those kind of people, folks with deep roots in the land. Both were raised on the Mountain, went to the same school, attended the same parties, had the same friends. Kevin was one year older than Jeanne and through most of their school years, he was a friend of Jeanne's older brother Donny. Donny still farms the Shaw's land on the Twelfth Concession, along with nearly a thousand acres of neighbouring lands. Hay, mainly, because the hay grown on the Mountain is known to be some of the finest fodder produced anywhere, and is shipped to the top equestrian farms and horse breeders throughout North America. For years, Kevin helped Donny out when it was time to take off the corn or gave him a hand snowplowing laneways in the winter, before Kevin found regular work as a mechanic at the Country Club. Jeanne did the bookkeeping at the Co-op in Beaver Falls, where she worked since High School. Jeanne was lucky. With Kevin working such long hours, she had a job that allowed her to get Jamie and Dana on the school bus before heading to work and still be home a little before the bus dropped off the kids.

Jeanne didn't tell Kevin she had taken Max's card the night of the band concert, or on the following Wednesday, she called his cellphone and they talked about what people were paying for property on the Mountain. Jeanne didn't say much more about the real estate agent, so it was understandable that Kevin knew nothing about the meeting Jeanne and Max had planned at the house for Saturday morning.

Jeanne answered the door with a polite smile and invited Max into the house. He looked around and as they walked to the kitchen, he glanced up to the spray-coated, dimpled plaster ceiling. The house needed updating, that was certain, but it still worked fine for the couple and their young children. They always talked about painting the pressboard kitchen cabinets and changing the shag rug that ran throughout the bungalow, once the kids were older and they could put some money aside.

"I know it's tough to save when you have small kids," Max said.

"Yes, but it's not like we're suffering or anything. We've enough to get by. The kids have a good life up here."

"I'm sure they do, fresh air and all. But have you ever thought of moving off the Mountain, into town? For the kids, of course. I know with the new recreation centre in town, the library—and so close to the school, you need to think about High School for them too. Do you really want them taking the bus down the Mountain every day? Not to mention the driving you'll have to do, picking them up and dropping them off from clubs and teams and friends."

Both she and Kevin had taken the bus to the High School in town. Some of her fondest memories of being a teenager were when she used the excuse of bad roads to stay over in town. Now, she didn't need to be closer to friends. Jeanne's friends lived on the Mountain anyway. It was her home. But she had to question if, as a parent, it might be best for her kids to be brought up in the relative isolation of the Tenth Concession. And Max seemed to know so much, he made a lot of sense.

"It's a great time to sell if you were ever thinking about moving off the Mountain. Prices have never been higher. Country properties like yours are getting hard to find. I have brokered bidding wars on places that weren't half as nice as this. You two are sitting on a gold mine, you know." Max flashed a smile. His teeth were white and perfect.

He didn't have to explain about the money people were getting for their places. Ron and Mary sold last year to a hobby farmer from the city. A lawyer, they said, although Jeanne had never met him, not even at the Co-op. Donny farms the land now. They put a massive addition onto the farmhouse and paved the long, winding driveway in from the road, lined it with imported trees, even built a stone gate. "It looks like a flippin' mansion," Kevin said every time they passed it. Other farms had been sold to Amish who couldn't find enough land for their sons. They ended up trying to outbid the city folk, and the price just went higher. Reggie and Lynne got twelve thousand dollars an acre, word was.

"How much do you think we could get for our place, Max?"

"Well, you say there is ten acres here, not workable, which is actually better from a price point. But if the forest across the road were cut down, you would have views clear across to the lake. It would be amazing. I bet I could get you four-fifty."

"Four hundred and fifty thousand? For this little house?"



"Oh, whoever would pay that would tear the house down and build something bigger, with a second story so they could get the views."

Sunday after dinner, Jeanne told Kevin the real estate man had come over. Jeanne explained what Max had told her about the value of their home. Kevin's face reddened and he pushed his chair back from the table as Jeanne spoke. It was as though she was telling him she was leaving, or confessing about something terrible she had done. He looked broken and ashamed and lost.


"Oh honey, I'm not saying that we should put the house up for sale or move into town, it's just something we might want to think about. You would have less of a drive to work—I don't know how much longer the Co-op is going to stay in business anyway, with the Amish always buying from their kin. I could get work in town, for sure. But think of the kids, of the opportunities they would have."

"And where would we live then, if we sold?"

"Max says we could buy a brand new home in one of the new subdivisions for five hundred thousand. Brand new: brick, paved driveway, playground in the neighbourhood, walking distance to the school."

"So, we pay down what we still owe on the mortgage on this place, and renew with a bigger mortgage on a house in town with what, a seventy-foot lot?"


"Sixty—they're sixty foot lots."

"That's what Max told you, is it?"

Kevin got up from the table and went into the living room where the kids were watching television. "That's enough TV guys. Let's get you undressed for a bath."

It was a few days later, at Jamie's hockey practice, when Kevin mentioned Jeanne's visit from the real estate agent. His friends didn't seem surprised.

"I know, it makes me a little scared to think that all these city people are looking to move up here."

"Ya, house prices in the city are ridiculous."

"People are cashing out, retiring early and buying up all the Mountain."

"Look what happened in Dunrovin. Regular folk can't afford the taxes anymore."

"And the Township Council has been taken over by these outsiders. They have seats on all the committees now."

"And they don't want any kind of industry up here. They're taking away our jobs."

"And they're changing our laws to suit them—last year they got rid of deer hunting on Saturdays."

"It seems to me," Kevin said, "that we're losing the stuff that makes this place our home, what is important to us."

"It's who we are, really."

"We need to do something to protect our way of life, don't you think?

"Ya, but what are we going to do about it? How do we stop them from coming?"

The men paused and each, at the same time, sipped the blackness from his takeout coffee. The sound of a puck slapping against the rink boards echoed through the arena. Kevin looked up at the scoreboard clock to see how much time was left.

Kevin's mother used to say, "a good man knows his place." She used this, mainly, when Kevin's father disagreed with her over household matters or about things having to do with raising the children, things which, in his parent's world, were the woman's business. Kevin found himself remembering that saying every so often in his life with Jeanne, often mumbling it under his breath as he did what he was told.

But just as a man must know his place in the home, he also must understand his place in the world. He must know where he is from, and how the place he came from has shaped who he is. A good man has a connection to his roots, to his family, to the earth. The folk who were raised up here on the Mountain understand. They are good people, for the most part. They know their place and the place knows them. 

So it must have been difficult for Kevin to lean against the kitchen counter and listen to Jeanne tell him she and Max had met at his office in town that morning and he had taken her, in his fancy car, to look at houses in town and that there was a beautiful model home in a development that was just perfect and each of the kids would get their own room and there's a guest room too with its own bathroom and a full basement and high-speed internet, and just think, Kevin, how important it is for the kids now with school and everything and how they could put in an offer, if they wanted, that would be on the condition of them selling their house on the Mountain and Max is sure he can get close to four hundred thousand dollars for the place, and we could get the new house for about five-fifty, but it has so many upgrades honey, even granite in the kitchen and, get this babe, our own bathroom, right off the bedroom, with a huge bathtub, big enough for two, Max said.

And Kevin must have had to think about his place in all of this. He would have heard Jamie downstairs, unpacking his hockey equipment and would have known Dana was in her bedroom playing by herself. Jeanne was so excited about their future together. He would have had to think back—think hard—to recall a time when she was this thrilled about anything. Maybe he would have remembered the time when they bought the camper trailer, when they planned their first trip together. How they were going to take the camper North and park on a lake somewhere. Fish every day. Sit around the campfire at night. Move on to a different lake. Maybe take it to the East Coast. But then they found out Jeanne was pregnant and the next year was tough too. Then Dana came along and the camper, still in the back yard, became Kevin's hunt camp where he and the boys would have a few drinks now, during whitetail season.

But people can't see what goes on in a man's head, nor do they know what goes on in a family's home, behind closed doors. No one can judge another man's actions, although they might try. Dan and Karri, and the others who would remain on the mountain, fighting the newcomers, saving their farms, protecting the water, stopping the condo development, putting up road signs and running for council—they might question why a 'For Sale' sign appeared on the lawn of Kevin and Jeanne's place on the Tenth Concession. The kids on Jamie's hockey team would, certainly, have asked Jamie what his parents were doing, why they would want to move into town? Brother Donny and Mom and Dad and Old Papa wouldn't understand either.

Drive up the Mountain now and head west on the Tenth and there is still a place where the road takes a dip into the gully they used to call Frog's Hollow. There is a brand new house on the top of the hill, before the gully, but imagine if it wasn't there. Imagine, instead, the sides of the hollow are still covered with ancient cedars and the limestone wall is padded in a thick, green, velvet moss. The air in the place is fresh with life. From a crack in the stone, the newly melted snow drips and runs along a thin line in the rock; it falls, drop by drop, into a shallow pool on the forest floor, and a trickle begins to spill over rock and root. The water is clear and cold and born of the earth. And it flows, still, down the Mountain. It seeps into the pores of the rock, into the cracks and crevices, into the aquifer, and it runs through the ancient bedrock, under the land that was formed by stones and sand and loam, the material washed off the Mountain through ages of erosion and deposited and scattered as soil onto the plain below. The water still flows under the land. It irrigates the crops that rise from the earth and it gives life. It runs in the veins of the people who live beneath the Mountain.