I live in a beautiful rural county in Appalachia that few have ever heard of, fewer have seen with their own eyes, and a pittance actually have the blessing to call their home. This county is surrounded and sectioned by the sort of steep but gently undulating long ridges that typify the ancient and amorous Appalachian Mountains. In a narrow highland valley, between two such ridges, on the crest of a supple hill, lies a small town with no traffic light, no gas station, no post office, no commercial venture of any kind, just a grouping of houses smaller than a single block in a standard suburban housing development. Close enough in distance to this town to be considered a resident of it, but far enough distant to be blissfully uninvolved in the geopolitical and social affairs of its few nosy and gossiping inhabitants, my family and I reside on a small farm, and give thanks every day for what we view as a blessed existence.
On this small farm, in this small town, in this small valley, in this small county, we raise our small children as part of our small family. Having more than half a dozen children may not be thought of as having a small family in these days of birth control and family planning, but having less than a dozen children does sometimes make us feel as though our family is on the small side. Maybe in the future our family will be blessed with more children, if that is how things are supposed to be. In the present, we raise our family on our farm; unseen from the nearest road, unseen from the nearest town, unnoticed by the world. In this way we are anonymous, and wish to remain so.