So, are you thinking of going to the field? It’s time to leave the frenzy of city life, drop the ‘G’ at the end of verbs and trade your Gucci for goats. You long to be in a place where business is done with a handshake, where your backyard is bountiful, and where people greet you with warm apple pie and a smile. You want the simple life.
More than 1.6 million people moved to rural communities during the first five years of this decade. Several stayed. This migration continues, reinforced by dozens of national and regional periodicals presenting sanitized ‘country chic’ to millions of lounge rednecks. Having read a myriad of books and magazines about going to the county, he’s convinced it’s for you. Why not?
Editorials that immerse you in a prose of found serenity. You are in love with the ideal of carving your own niche in nature, collecting the eggs in the morning and carving on the porch swing every night. Across the country, gentlemen greet women with the tip of their hat and a polite “Hello, Mom.” You long to raise your children in a community where grace abounds as people communicate with nature in perfect harmony. With every page turn of County Cool magazine, you feel your stress level drop.
Before you fall completely into a coma, keep a few things in mind. Full-page photographs of family gatherings held beneath towering shabby-chic barns make better magazine copy than centerfolds of locals trying to avoid making eye contact with your U-Haul. Stylized black-and-white drawings of cowboys scoring in the scorching midday sun sell better than snapshots of the mayor’s dead horses rotting all summer, right in the middle of town. Plus, triumphant stories of battling the elements flow better than the country’s old septic lines. No one knows why the media doesn’t ‘dress up’ peeing in his barn. It must be just a public whim.
Inconstant in fact. For my part, I moved my son from our lifelong home in San Diego to my home state of South Dakota three times before he got stuck. Each time I regressed in less than a year. Best friends, loads of humanities, the surf of the Pacific and Thai food are many things to give up at the same time. Harder still was the breaking of my rose colored glasses.
The secret to a successful relocation is knowing what to honestly expect so you can laugh cathartically when the inevitable weird scenarios come up. Sudden disappointment is rarely a knock to the knees. However, once adjusted, country life is closer to Nirvana than most here on Earth. So while everyone else is pumping pure field sun straight into your panties, I consider it my obligation to provide balance to the Universe.
Almost daily I question my reasons for living indoors. For these moments of apprehension I keep lists in my mind. My lists remind me of both what drove me to leave California and why I can’t give up country life. A heavy dose of big-city burnout definitely came into play. To begin with, I realized that I was so tired of traveling that I would rather spend seven months of the year in a fridge with no sunlight than sitting in another traffic jam. With that thought alone I was ready to pull out my roots. I also decided to move.
In fact, developing a hatred for the urban jungle was vital to my eventual “success” in relocation. In hindsight, my twig was definitely about to snap. Of course, so many city people run around with completely bent twigs that we never realize the twisted conditions of our existence. That many people live in close proximity, under the confines of excessive regulations, is the proverbial pressure cooker.
Urbanites and recent converts from the countryside who are wondering if their outlook on life may be intensely distorted are welcome to check out my lists. They provide perspective. For example: Signs of how ‘fucked up’ you may be include the following.
You are drinking your morning coffee, a cow walks through the front yard. You don’t have a cow. You freak out, call 911 and sweat the Meat Packers of America.
You think shoes that match your nail polish are somehow a daily priority.
You do not recognize that it is morally bankrupt to apply for permission from a homeowners association to put up a lawn ornament.
You carry more electronics with you than Radio Shack inventories.
You drive to work passing ‘that same old group of homeless people’.
You smile and say “Hello” to strangers just because you know it fucks their minds.
Your horse maintenance expenses are equivalent to the Gross National Product of Guatemala
You’re convinced you’re invisible and need two years of plastic surgery just so the town gentlemen don’t let the C-Store door jump in your face again.
He has a fit when his favorite salad bar serves cheese made with non-veg rennet, then takes the kids to Burgers Burgers Burgers.
Your children spend more time in the TV room than in the treetops, and you think that’s acceptable.
You get a building permit and three estimates to hang a picture.
Any carillon playing? If so, remove yourself from Urbania immediately! Your twig is in maximum contortion! Give the country three years and you’ll stay. The transition is difficult, but once his tense attitude is overcome, his twig straightens. These are the indicators that she is setting in the ‘Simple Life’.
You are drinking your morning coffee. A cow walks through the front yard. You don’t have a cow. You sit down and drink your coffee.
The combination of shoes with each other is low on the list of daily priorities.
Your latrine is not just a fancy garden ornament.
You save getting the chickens drunk for when you have guests.
He has no idea where his cell phone went, but the Border Collie is using his pager.
You drive to work past ‘that same old herd of buffalo’.
Your bird feeder expenses are equal to the Gross National Product of Canada.
Moose mounts adorn the walls of your favorite salad bar.
Your children spend more time in the tree house than in school.
Yes, these are definitely telltale signs, you’ve lost that city groove. Though he can never voluntarily raise his stress level to match the city dwellers again, he hasn’t completely lost it. Look in the small places. Remnants of your past will appear. These are the traits of an American hybrid.
As you sip your morning cappuccino, a cow walks through your front yard. You don’t have a cow. You throw him a biscotti.
You can’t decide whether to paint the outhouse walls with a contemporary or impressionist motif.
You use the word reason in the same sentence with toilet.
In fact, you make homemade preserves: wild chokecherries with a boisterous zinfandel you picked in Napa last season.
Mask before milking.
You spend the winter in the Gulf of Siam. You were in bib overalls.
You smile and say “Hello” to strangers just because you know it fucks their minds.
You could never shoot a deer, but you can kill that sucker in under two hours.
You leave with a pareo and thongs. (This one gets the neighbors talking.)
You frequently go into town to buy Hawaiian tofu and goat food.
You have a different pair of hiking boots for every occasion.
Egyptian cotton sheets and a commissioned replica of Picasso’s The Woman with Three Breasts enclose the chicks that are raised in her bedroom closet.
It’s true, every day there are more and more of us who are too screwed to return to the city. Still, despite all our differences, country people and city dwellers have something in common. Neither group thinks twice about the US Government Food Pyramid. I guess we have to start somewhere.
