“Welcome to the middle of nowhere. Are you sure
you've thought this through? When my (now former) husband and I started telling
people that we had traded our vintage Italian convertible for a '69 pickup
truck and intended to move from the Northern California wine country to the
wilds of Missouri, our announcement was met with various responses. These were
usually along the lines of, Are you completely out of your minds? That's east
of here isn't it? What will you do for culture? and I don't think they have an
ocean out there. The real pessimists stated flatly, You won't last a year.
The short version: I'm a 43-year-old former
cultured California chick happily turned
manure mucking Missouri
farmgirl. Seventeen years ago I moved sight unseen to the middle of nowhere and
have almost never looked back.
The extended version: At least once in their
lives, nearly everyone dreams of giving it all up and moving to the country.
Few people are crazy enough to actually do it. I'm one of those few. In 1994,
when I was 26, I sold my successful little bakery cafe, packed up numerous
boxes of books and vintage treasures acquired during years as a part time
antiques dealer, and waved goodbye to my native California. Armed with a very
basic knowledge of gardening, an overenthusiastic sense of adventure, lots of
naiveté, and a budget way too small to afford my quaint New England dream farm,
I dragged four cats, a large dog, and my equally greenhorn husband (who has since
escaped back to civilization) to a 280-acre, 140-year-old 'rustic' homestead in
the middle of nowhere. Within a few months we had acquired two cows, 33 sheep,
and a llama. We put in an orchard, and I planted 11,000 square feet
of organic heirloom vegetables, flowers, and herbs—all started from seed. I
became cook, gardener, shepherd, farmhand, vet, surrogate mom, wildlife expert,
sheep midwife, and animal undertaker. My prep school education and graphic
design background were useless. It was a complete lifestyle change as I went
from attending restaurant openings, wine tastings, and art gallery receptions
to working the rural fire dept's BBQ booth at the annual crafts fair and
munching fried pies at country auctions made by little old ladies from the church.
I made ludicrous attempts to maintain some semblance of a refined lifestyle in
a place where squirrel is considered food and newly acquainted dinner hosts
once remarked that they were, "thrilled to be able to serve you pork ribs,
since no one else we know has enough teeth to eat them."
There were Keith Haring serigraphs on the wall
and blackleg vaccines in the fridge. I think I still may be the only person in
three counties who grows arugula.
Twelve years ago I moved to an even more
remote, 240-acre farm that I share with several dozen sheep, a flock of 14
laying hens (headed by 12-year-old Whitey, who plans to become the World's
Oldest Chicken), two extremely loud roosters (that thing about them only
crowing at dawn is a lie), two livestock guardian dogs, one stock dog, one new
beagle pup, five farm cats, seven very entertaining donkeys, and one really
well fed hunky farmguy.
We live in an old falling down house that we
fondly refer to as The Shack (because it really is one) After 8½ years of
working on it, we've finally moved into our new house (which still isn't quite
done), and my life revolves around food. I write about my organic heirloom
garden and greenhouse at In My Kitchen Garden.
Oh, and as for eating squirrel, if you roll it
in flour and pan fry it—preferably in homemade lard—it's actually pretty darn
tasty. But just when I think I've finally crossed over, the local furniture
store runs an ad in the weekly paper for camo covered sofas and recliners. So
far I've resisted.
If you'd like to learn a little more about my
taste in things like music and movies, you can check out my Blogger profile.
And I talk more about farm life on my Frequently Asked Farmgirl Questions page.
Welcome to the farm! (Susan)”
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