... is located in Flat Rock, North Carolina, just outside Hendersonville in the magnificent Blue Ridge Mountains, and is administered by the National Park Service. Carl Sandburg, famed American poet, minstrel, biographer, novelist, lecturer, traveler, and two-time Pulitzer Prize winning author, moved to this 245 acre Connemara farm with his wife, Lilian, and daughter, Helga, when he was 67 years of age. They moved from Michigan to escape the winters, to provide room for Lilian’s prize-winning goat herd and goat milk business, and for seclusion for his writing. He lived here 22 years until his death in 1967 and a year later the family sold the land to the Park Service and donated all the contents of the home to be preserved as this historic site.
Sandburg was Connemara Farm's third owner. The residence is set upon a picturesque hill, 110 feet above a lake, as seen here...
Here’s a close-up of the home's front exterior...
Walking into the home is like stepping back in history, since all is exactly as it was the day the family moved out. The Sandburgs eschewed ostentation, and the sole wall decorations are photographs, many taken by Lilian’s brother and Carl’s best friend, famed photographer Edward Steichen. Over 12,000 books shared the house with the family, and they fill bookcases everywhere in the residence as you will see in the following photos. Lilian insisted fire hoses and standpipes be installed in the house since it was loaded with so many books, papers, and magazines. He also donated tens of thousands of books to the University of Illinois.
Sandburg wrote every night, often well into the morning, so for his bedroom he chose this room on the upper floor so he wouldn't disturb the family with his unusual sleep habits and nocturnal writing schedule...
...and the room next to his bedroom served as his writing room -- a room which provided few windows and none of the majestic, scenic views of the other rooms -- since he wanted no distractions to interfere with his writing. During the day, he often sat on a large flat rock near the house where he could think and plan his writing, scratching out his thoughts with pencil on paper for his late evening's composing sessions.
Upon tiring in the wee hours of the morning, he’d sleep as much as was needed, plan his next evening's writing content, and then join the family in the afternoon and for dinner, after which they’d talk or he’d read his latest creative output. He also immensely enjoyed music, especially singing folk songs which he had collected for decades during his travels and during his earlier years when as a young man he had experienced the life of a hobo. The family would gladly and exuberantly join him in song, all singing along to his rudimentary guitar accompaniment (he was self-taught, playing chords.) Here’s a shot of the spartan living room where they gathered, complete with piano and guitar (and lots of books)...
The tour of the house includes several short video clips of Sandburg, one of which is a wonderful interview by his favorite newsman, Edward R. Murrow, who visited the farm and interviewed Sandburg and the family over the course of 5 days.
Carl Sandburg won two Pulitzer prizes and entertained heads of state, presidents, and Hollywood movie stars, but he only formally graduated from the eighth grade. He attended college classes for four years, never receiving a degree, but later was conferred honorary degrees by Lombard College, Knox College, and Northwestern University.
Sandburg volunteered for the U.S. Army and served in Puerto Rico during the Spanish-American War of 1898 but did not see combat.
Some of my favorite Sandburg quotes:
"Writing is 5% inspiration and 95% perspiration."
“Blessed are those who expect little, for they will never be disappointed.”
“It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness; to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I and where have I been, and where am I going?‘”
"All politicians should have three hats - one to throw into the ring, one to talk through, and one to pull rabbits out of if elected."
"Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time."
"Back of every mistaken venture and defeat is the laughter of wisdom, if you listen."
"Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years."
"I am an idealist. I don't know where I'm going but I'm on my way."
"I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes, so live not in your yesterdays, not just for tomorrow, but in the here and now. Keep moving and forget the post-mortems; and remember, no one can get the jump on the future."
"I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors."
"I've written some poetry I don't understand myself."
"Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep."
"One of the greatest necessities in America is to discover creative solitude."
"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away."
"Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child."
"Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work."
"Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come."
"Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are."
"The secret of happiness is to admire without desiring."
"Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you."
"To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damn hard."
"When a nation goes down, or a society perishes, one condition may always be found; they forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what had brought them along."
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