We visit my family in Lancaster, PA at least once a month. While there, I almost always fantasize about leaving the chaos of New York and client work behind and buying a quaint stone cottage with a little farmland. I blame it on the green rolling hills, breezy corn fields and windmills that line Route 222 from Reading to Lancaster. The idyllic scene gets me every time.
These idealistic fantasies used to induce a playful eye roll from my husband, but lately, he’s entertained them for a bit longer than usual. It’s a curious silence. Certainly he can’t be thinking about it too. Can he?
I should be careful. The last time we aligned on a crazy idea, we ended up moving to Paris.
I finished reading Wolf Hall last night, and was cruising my list of “to-reads” on Goodreads. I was about three sentences into a review of Jim Minick’s, The Blueberry Years, before downloading it to my iPad. Jim and his wife Sarah bought a 90-acre farm in Virginia with no farming experience. His memoir chronicles their dream of running a pick-your-own blueberry farm and pursuit of a simpler life.
I finished a third of the book last night, and I can’t decide if it will add fuel to my fantasy fire or slap me in the face with the realities of farm life.