It’s back…that recurring and sometimes annoying desire to live in the country. When I really think about it this wish has been ongoing for much of my adult life-it flares up now and then before I kick it under the bed. You could say that my coming to
20 years ago was the first acknowledgement, leaving Dallas, a city of a million people, to move
to Monmouth, population 3,000. But even
then we lived right in the middle of the tiny downtown, across the street from
the post office.
What I have dreamed of, all these years, is a 19th century farmhouse with a barn surrounded by several acres of fields and woods. A stream bordering the property. A sunny garden space, some berry bushes and a few fruit trees. Chickens. A cozy house with a woodstove that feels like home. About half an hour drive to a small city. No mortgage.
Superficially you might think that I’m a city girl. I love snobby cultural institutions such as art museums, symphonies and lecture series. In the past 20 years, though, I’ve discovered that I can do pretty well making my own culture-a few examples are my Proust group, my project with Bill of listening to all of the Beethoven string quartets, our own foreign movie festivals and many dinner parties with interesting company. And of course there’s the New York Times. I find periodic trips to a city gratifying and quite satisfactory, where I soak up all the culture I can muster before happily returning home.
Over the course of our time in
Maine we’ve looked at several places just
like the above. Different reasons popped
up not to take the plunge-bad timing, lack of courage, or just plain
Well, I can dream, can’t I?