My name is Anna McKay. I was born in Decorah, and I have never really left. 

Some people talk about small towns as if they are something to escape from, but Decorah never felt like that to me. It felt steady, familiar, like a place that does not ask you to hurry or explain yourself. 

I grew up knowing the sound of wind through tall grass, the smell of soil after rain, and the way seasons here truly feel different from one another.

Even now, I still live in Decorah, just a little outside the center, in a quiet rural pocket people around here casually call Willow Bend. 

It is not an official village with signs or borders. You know you are there when the road narrows, the fields open wider, and the houses sit farther apart.

The Land Around Our Home

Willow Bend is surrounded by long stretching fields and wide green meadows that seem to breathe with the day. 

In spring, everything looks soft and hopeful. In summer, the land feels full and alive. Fall brings slow color changes and cooler air, and winter strips everything back to something honest and bare.

Not far from our house, the Upper Iowa River moves quietly through the land. It curves slowly, reflecting the sky, carrying fallen leaves, and sometimes ice in the winter.

I often walk near it when I need to think. The river reminds me that time moves forward whether you rush it or not.

A Cottage With History

I live in a small cottage with my grandmother. The house is old but strong. The floors creak in places we know by heart and some doors stick when the weather changes. 

Bonus, the windows let in a lot of light, especially in the morning, when the sun comes in low and warm.

We also share this home with our Persian cat, who has claimed the best spots in the house without asking permission. He spends most of his days sleeping near the windows, watching birds when he is awake, and following us from room to room when he feels like being involved.

Living with my grandmother has shaped my life more than I realized at first. 

She lives simply and notices things. She fixes what she can, lets go of what she cannot, and never rushes a task just to be done faster.

The Garden in Front of the House

The most important part of my life sits right in front of our home. We have a flower garden that covers nearly one hectare, stretching across the land between the house and the open fields beyond. 

When you stand at the kitchen window, the entire garden spreads out in view. It is the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I look at before the light fades in the evening.

The garden grew year by year. Some areas were planted long before I was old enough to help. Others came later, added when we learned what worked and what did not. 

Roses grow closest to the house. My grandmother planted many of them herself. Their stems are thick, and some of them bloom every year no matter what kind of weather we have.

Farther out, coneflowers rise in clusters, purple and strong, and bees love them. Daisies fill in open spaces. Bee balm spreads where it feels comfortable. 

There are plants whose names I know and others I only recognize by sight. Each part of the garden has its own personality.

My grandmother and I take care of the garden together. Sometimes we talk while we work, sometimes we do not. 

We know what needs to be done just by looking. Watering during dry weeks. Trimming back what has finished blooming. Supporting plants that grow tall and need help staying upright.

The garden taught me patience in real ways. Seeds do not care about your plans. The weather does what it wants. Some years are generous, and others are difficult.

The Stories That Grow Here

When I say the garden talks to me, I mean that if you spend enough time there, you start to notice patterns. 

You learn when something is struggling before it looks sick. You can also learn which areas hold moisture longer and which dry out too fast.

Every rose, every coneflower, every patch of soil holds a memory. This garden has seen me grow just as much as I have watched it grow.

Why I Am Writing This

This blog is where I put these moments into words. I am not trying to make life sound perfect or impressive. 

I want to tell the truth about a life lived slowly, with care, among flowers, land, and family. I write about my grandmother, our garden, our home, and the small days that shape who I am.