On Legacy...

and happy thanksgiving....

The smell of petrichor, rare in the dry West Texas terrain, carries a sweetness that lingers long after the rain. Maybe it’s the rarity of the rain itself, or maybe there’s just something inherently sweeter about that part of Texas. Either way, it takes me back to a toddler’s seat on the back of a bicycle, my grandfather, Ed Meador, at the helm. A WWII vet and a rancher with no shortage of tasks, he still made time for that ride. But I was more interested in ditching my shoes and escaping the chair than enjoying the moment.

Looking back, it was a small rebellion, but he should have seen it coming. The Meadors, after all, are a family of pioneers, stubborn, self-reliant, and driven. My great-great-grandfather, C.L. Meador, drove a covered wagon to Eldorado, Texas, in 1900 with little more than grit and cattle. That spirit ran through my grandfather, juggling ranching, insurance, oil leasing, and local newspaper publishing just to make ends meet, and my father, Rusty, who uprooted us to Dallas with nothing but a “we’ll figure it out” mindset once it became clear that the ranch couldn’t support all the families in the oil bust of the 1980s. It’s a legacy of carving paths where none exist, and though I walk it in my own way, the trail feels familiar.

Our family’s legacy isn’t just a story; it’s written into the land. The X-Bar Ranch, established outside Eldorado in 1915, has been in our family for over a century. In the U.S., that kind of continuity is rare, and it shaped my identity growing up. But here we are, thousands of miles away in Bordeaux, in a place where we have no history, no ties. What does it mean to leave behind something so rooted in who we are, to trade the familiar rhythms of home for the unknown? I wrestle with that question often.

This week, for the fourth time in my life, I’ll miss Thanksgiving on the ranch. In 45 years, that’s happened only three times before (that I can remember). The meals, the family, the ritual of it all, these were the markers of a life rooted in place. Now, we find ourselves in a country where that day is just another Thursday, and while we’ve made a home here, it’s impossible not to feel the ache of what’s been left behind. It’s a small reminder that legacy is more than land or tradition, it’s the connections we nurture, even across the miles.

In Bordeaux, lineage is everything. Generations pass down not only their land but their wisdom, their traditions, and their responsibility to care for something bigger than themselves. It’s why we were drawn here, to Francs (an AOC so small it doesn’t have a Wikipedia page), where the limestone and clay promise something enduring. But the weight of starting fresh in a place so steeped in its own traditions is humbling. It forces me to ask what legacy means for us. Is it bound to a single place, or is it something we carry with us, something that grows not from what we’ve inherited but from the choices we make?

For us, moving to Bordeaux wasn’t about rejecting the past. It was about accepting that legacies are built as much by leaving as by staying. My great-great-grandfather didn’t stay in one place, he moved his family to Eldorado, charting a new course that became part of our story. My father didn’t stay on the ranch, he left to build a life for us in Dallas. Each of them wrestled with what it meant to move forward, to leave something behind in pursuit of something uncertain. Now, I find myself doing the same.

Here in Francs, where the quiet slopes remind me of the land my family has cared for over generations, everything feels both new and strangely familiar. The climate, the culture, the challenges, they’re all different, but the work feels the same: planting roots, stewarding the land, and trusting that with care and patience, something lasting will grow. Yet, there’s a tension I can’t ignore. What does it mean to build something here, in a place where our name has no history, while leaving behind a place where it does?

Like the smell of rain in West Texas, this move has left its mark, a mix of longing and possibility. It’s taught me that legacy isn’t just what you inherit or leave behind; it’s what you create, even when starting anew. Missing Thanksgiving reminds me that, while we may be far from the familiar, the essence of who we are is never truly left behind. It’s something we build upon and carry forward, shaping the connections we forge and the places where, even without ties, we trust… with courage and time… that we’ll make home.