To hear someone say “I’ve lived here all my life,” is a rare thing these days. And those few who can say so, are often embarrassed by the fact that they forgot to travel the world and live in a flat in Paris or hike across the Sahara.
But I have a deep respect for folks who stay put, see the value in living close to family members, and can recite, with great accuracy, the exact year that the drive-in theater was paved over to become a strip mall or the football stadium got an electronic score board.
If you asked me, do I wish I still lived in the farm town of my growing up years? I’d probably say no. But when I found myself living in the big city with small children who threatened to venture beyond the man-hole in the middle of our busy Northeast Portland neighborhood, I began longing for the days when I smelled like horse manure and mosquito repellant at the end of a long trail ride.
I mentioned this little day-dream of mine to my Brother and his wife one day while we vacationed together at a former-commune-turned-youth-camp outside of Antelope. Now, keep in mind that my brother also grew up on a small farm. And his wife grew up in Kansas, which is just flat-out stunning and rural in all parts, I think. My husband and his, Gilliam County childhood memories, were also in on the conversation. We found ourselves sharing bits and pieces of the small-town living we had almost forgotten. Things like, the one-screen movie house with romantic loge seating in the back row, learning to drive the pick-up truck in a wide-open field. And, my personal favorite, catching the six a.m. bus during summer vacation to pick strawberries all day. I’ll never forget the coconut-sized berry my brother stuffed into the pocket of his Toughskins™ jeans to bring home to Mama.
This sort of nostalgia can lead a person down many paths. In our case we began to brainstorm out loud and it went something like this:
“We could do a lot of things if we had money.”
“How about we all go out and try to make a million dollars, and when we do, we buy a BIG farm together!”
We all agreed on this very well-thought-out and plausible plan of action. Then we went back home to our tidy postage-stamp yards with properly disconnected down-spouts and daily visits from door-to-door magazine salesmen.
Less than a year later, our families were (how shall I say…) in a temporary state of self-employment, also known as door-to-door magazine sales. But OH, how I kid (sort of).
And then Ed McMahon paid us a visit!
Oh, how I kid, AGAIN, because our blessings had turned toward something even better than Publishers Clearinghouse. Dad and Mom happened to ask if we’d ever considered moving toward their retirement haven in Central Oregon and, while we were at it, why not bring the grandkids too! Well, it wasn’t a million bucks, but how many parents ask their kids and grandkids to come live with them? We considered this nifty idea, for about a half-a-millisecond and then quickly placed our homes on the market and began submitting resumes and job applications through-out Central Oregon. Turns out the parents didn’t actually mean LIVE WITH them, so we did what every other person moving from an over-inflated housing market does; we contacted a realtor and inquired about a quaint farm with room for chickens and a horse…in Tumalo.
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