Five years ago, Monty and I put our house in the city up for sale, packed up all our belongings and our cat, Ricky, and moved to this little town on the prairie. My dad and brother wanted Monty to work for the family business they were building here. I was familiar with the town, as my grandparents had lived here for a time when I was a little girl. But visiting a town as small as this one and living here are two very different things. I was born and raised in the city; I was unsure if I could ever get used to rural, small town life. In our first months here, I felt like a plant that had been transferred from its familiar pot into a new pot, and I didn’t know if I would be able to put down roots and begin to bloom here.
I kept hearing the “Green Acres” theme song, where the husband and wife argue over which is better, life in the country or life in the city:
Husband: “Green acres is the place for me.
Farm livin’ is the life for me.
Land spreadin’ out so far and wide
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.”
Wife: “New York is where I’d rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Dah-ling, I love you but give me Park Avenue.”
Except I was the one singing both parts in some kind of schizophrenic duet, unsure if I liked it here or would always prefer the city. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that we don’t live on an actual farm with actual green acres. But I, personally, think that if you can smell and hear barnyard animals from your back porch, that’s very close to “farm livin.’” And it’s definitely “that countryside.”)
With that song in my head as background music, the shock of the transplant began to wear off, and I started noticing the unique aspects of small town, countryside life. I developed a list in my head of all the parts of living here that I liked:
I like being able to see my parents’ house from my office window.
I like having my brother right around the corner from me.
I like that we all know our police chief by name.
I like picking up lunch at the gas station and having my brother text me saying, “How was your spicy chicken sandwich?” before I even get home with it. I like that I don’t even wonder anymore how he knows; here, news travels faster than I do.
I like it when Monty and I go to the city and come back here—to a town with no traffic and no noise.
I like that the price of corn and wheat is on the front page of the newspaper.
I like reading the newspaper and realizing how many people I know.
I like knowing that my 12-year-old nephew can ride his bike after dark in the summer and will be safe because everyone who knows him will be watching out for him.
I also like knowing that if that same nephew should even entertain the idea of doing something he shouldn’t, his parents will find out—probably before he gets home.
Where we used to live.
Where we live now.
I like that when you give someone here your phone number, you only have to give the last four digits, since we all have the same prefix.
I like the rhythm of life here—the traditions like Old Fashioned Saturday Night in the summer, Corn Fest in September, and Santa’s town visit at Christmas time.
I like hearing a dog barking and knowing it’s my mom’s dog.
I like the whistle that blows at seven a.m., noon, one p.m., and six p.m. There’s something comforting in that whistle, day in and day out—it’s been blowing for years before we lived here and will probably continue to blow, long after we’re gone.
I like talking to my mom on the phone and hearing the whistle both through my windows and over the phone.
I like that when the fire whistle blows, you can hear the volunteer firemen driving as fast as possible to get to the fire station.
I like living just seconds by car from the prairie, with its wide open skies and seemingly endless fields of green and yellow and brown. (some people call it the plains or high plains, but the little girl in me who loved the “Little House on the Prairie” books and TV show will always think of it as the prairie.)
I like the absolute stillness of nights in this town. In all of the hours that I’m up at night, I hear maybe two cars drive by, and a train coming through. I can actually hear the birds start singing at four in the morning.
About two years after we moved here, Monty and I were in the city, and we drove past our old house. We couldn’t see it from the road anymore; a whole development had been built around it. When we drove into the development and found the house, there was no place to park to look at it. We looked at it from the street, and as we did, I realized that I felt only some bittersweet nostalgia for it. I didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t want that life anymore—I loved the one I had too much. I realized that the transplant had worked—that somehow, without even noticing it, I’d become a small town girl. Monty and I have put down roots here, and I’ve found the place my heart was always searching for.
This is the place where I started coming back to life after years of feeling that life didn’t matter. This is where I found recovery, in a group and in my daily journey with God. This is where both Monty and I fought through the pain of change to find joy on the other side. This is where we have shared countless dinners with my parents, seen my brother get married, and had the privilege of being a part of his and his kids’ lives. This is where we found a church home, after years of looking. This is where we’ve made friends who care for us and pray for us and let us do the same for them. This is where we work for our family business, with all of its highs and lows and daily life in between. This is where Monty and I lost our beloved cat Ricky and gained three new cats—our beautiful boys who entertain us, love us, and make our house a home.
I can say that and mean it now—this is home. The “Green Acres” song was right—this is the life for me. And though we don’t literally live on green acres, we do have a big green backyard where we sit on summer nights and watch the stars and listen to the cicadas—and the occasional cow, coyote, and owl. I marvel at the beauty of it all, and my soul sings, “Goodbye, city life! Green acres, we are there.”
“We lie beneath a city of stars, counting our small town dreams.”Christy Ann Martine
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Oh, I loved living along with you for a moment and picturing your small town living. Sometimes I have thought of the more rural living idea as I create all that I do without distraction and all the noises of city living, but I must admit that Vancouver, although a big city, is so spread out and has so many spectacular viewpoints that it does not really feel like other cities. And I think back of where I was born, also a small town as I was growing up, even as it has grown hugely in size now and the many acres of wide open farmland and fields no longer. Originally a small fishing village it was, and a place I did not feel happy as a child, a town too strict with its many legalistic rules of religious living, a place where everybody knew everyone else’s business and where gossip was non-stop and where one thing was said and another thing done. I do appreciate it today now it has grown and the diversity feels more pleasant and I do love the actual inner town that is still there with its tiny cobbled streets, the bakery and the many other small family stores and the many pretty historical houses that are still standing and I know that now I could live there again. Now that I have grown and learned and accepted that I am who I am and no longer worry about others and what they may think of me. You got me thinking Renee!!!!
Klara–Vancouver is such a beautiful city with so many pretty places to see that I can see why you don’t want to leave it. I do see why you wanted to leave your small town; it sounds a bit claustrophobic when you were growing up. I don’t think I would have liked small town living then, either. I’m sad that all of the fields are gone, but it sounds beautiful, otherwise. I’m picturing the quintessential Dutch village–cobbled streets and all. Thank you for the “tour”–and for your words. Love to you.
Good read once again, my friend! I had to giggle at the entire start as it’s not uncommon in the least for me to belt out the Green Acres song as my trusty lawn tractor and I mow our small acreage. My little farm is my happiest of places. I, too, grew up in the city (Colorado Springs) yet I was always my happiest and most content when visiting my Great Aunt and Uncle’s farm in Oklahoma. With free reign to wander on foot, or take to horseback (as long as I kept the main windmill in sight, of course!), oh how I loved the sweet quiet that helped tune my ear to the sounds of nature, and directed my eyes to the simple beauty of creation. Something about wide open spaces and the absence of competing elements for my attention fills me with contentment like nothing else can (I feel that way in the mountains too). Now, I love people and spending time with them. But I NEED solitude to refresh, redirect, and renew who I am, and who God desires me to be. I need this type of respite to hear that still. small voice that so easily gets overrun by the usual volume of life. I am glad that this is something you’ve found peace in as well. <3
Thank you, Lisa! I like picturing you singing the “Green Acres” song while you mow. You’re exactly right when you said “the absence of competing elements for my attention” brings contentment and gives you respite to hear God’s still, small voice. That’s how I feel, too. Thank you for sharing such a picture of serenity. I so appreciate you reading my words.
Renee, This Blog. “Touched me” a little differently, than some of the others. But, as I read on, I “fell in love” with your description, of You, Monty and Ricky “packing up” for “small town life”. We, Debbie and I also watched “Green Acres” love thedynamic between Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert. Lucy had an episode where she andRicky, “moved to the country”,laugh filled. My story, growing up in Valley Stream,N.Y., a small town, that today has really grown. In fact, Debbieand I visited few years ago, Debbie could not believe the size and “hustle and bustle”. You, Renee found your “balance”, mental, emotional, physical moving to your small. Town. Not only was it “life changing for you”, It was probably “life and marriage saving”.As I have said in other Blog replies, and messages Renee you have an “amazing reservoir of writing talent, along with “pure intestinal fortitude”,for putting all of your your creative thoughts, into beautiful, flowing words. I anticipate your Blogs, get “revved up” for each one. A final note, Debbieand Idecide to move from Houston to Katy, in 1980, before we had children, because Katy is “the cut of churche”, and good schools, We Have not Been disappointed. Keep up your marvelous writing, Sparrow. ..p.s. with the title of today’s blog, I immediately thought of”Can’t Stop Believing”, byJourney. See ya, again, Tanks for today’s Blog.
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Harold, Monty and I thought of that “Lucy” episode quite often when we first moved here! You’re right–I did “find my balance” here. And it has, indeed, been life changing. I can’t thank you enough for such kind words and encouragement. Oh–when I told Monty the title of the blog, he started singing “Don’t Stop Believin,’” too! Again, thank you for being such a loyal reader and friend.