In her
book, Little House on the Prairie, my homegirl Laura Ingalls Wilder mentions
that the Big Woods were growing so crowded that they more often than not would
hear the echo of an ax that was not Pa’s ax, or a shot of a gun that was not Pa’s
gun. I completely sympathize with this
sentiment. In our world, Joseph and I
can’t completely cut ourselves off from neighbors. But there is a very real idea of being
crowded, even on the five acres we currently rent.
Take for
instance, the other day when I took my dogs into the deep back yard where I
allow them to take care of their business, I saw a woman walking through the
property. I know this woman. She drove her bus-turned-home (complete with
wood and trash burning stove) onto the property of my neighbors a year or two
ago. I saw her on our property before, and she thought I didn’t see her, so she
slinked behind the building she was standing by to hide. I decided this was as good of a time as any
to introduce myself. Joseph and I keep
to ourselves, but even if we were the most open books on the planet (a goal my
blog is going above and beyond in trying to reach) we would still appreciate
anyone who wanted to come on our property to slink around to at least introduce
themselves and maybe even ASK if it was okay.
As it turns out, she was making audio recordings of our windmill. She collects sounds, apparently. You can always tell a city slicker from their
blatant disregard of boundaries. If, in
Idaho, I was caught trespassing, I would expect to at least be the target for
some trigger-happy land owner. You don’t
cross boundaries uninvited.
So I call
this woman on being on my property.
Again. At first she tries to tell
me the path through our property is easier for her to take to get to the back
road. So? Then she tells me that the property line is
actually marked by an old metal fence post, which Joseph and I had moved to its
current location and has nothing to do with property lines whatsoever. Then as I’m looking at her Bus-turned-Home, I
realize that she has parked it in the very corner of the property line and has
carved out a little yard from our side of the line for herself. I was really beginning to get worked up when
I realized something: I’m moving. This
is not my fight, nor my affair. And this
is a very good check mark in the column for pro-renting over owning your
house.
Joseph and
I are moving. Thanks to a very kind
lady, we found a house that is not too far from my work. We’ve been moving boxes and furniture, but by
bit, from our old country house to a home in the city. Yep, we’re becoming city slickers,
again. The difference, however, is that there
are actual fences to mark the boundaries between property lines. And we won’t need a boat to go home. The island was great while it lasted, but we
out-grew it.
So pulling
our lives with us in the back of the truck has set me to thinking a lot about
Ma and Laura Ingalls. We have the luxury
of taking our things bit by bit and making multiple trips. But if my worldly possessions had to compete
with food stores for a space on a rickety old wagon, I’m not sure how I would
decide between what to keep and what to leave behind. But the call west held more promise to most
than those worldly possessions they kept.
It was a promise for a new life and a new opportunity. I think the pioneering spirit is alive in
every culture, but has really been fostered in America where the Europeans
found a wide open space where they could just pick up and leave there troubles
behind. I can’t count how many times I
day dream about just picking up, moving house, and “starting fresh.” It is a myth, and a dream that isn’t usually
questioned. Americans grow up with the
idea that the grass is greener if they just venture out and see for
themselves.
So, if I over look all the inconveniences,
the hard work, the doing without boxes of supplies and home furnishings, I
guess I’m living the dream. I will live
in a new house and this new chapter of my life should be more than worth the
effort.
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