Nothing Special

No, really, I just don't think that what is going on here is all that special. Except, of course, to me.

Having a 100 year old farmhouse, and 60 acres, and barns and fencing and a corral and pasture and living 150 miles from the closest interstate, closest Wal-Mart, is just not that big a deal. Why should it be? It is what I have always wanted; what DH and I talked about since before we were married. Planting things and watching them grow and produce, raising animals for food - these things I have done on a small scale since I was 10, always wanting a bigger piece of property to do it on, always lamenting the tiny garden spots and tiny chicken yards I had, always wishing for something more. This is what drove me. I wanted nothing special, nothing fancy, nothing overdone, nothing high-end or fancy or 'the latest thing'.

Another thing that drove me was living thru the recession of the late 70's-early 80's. It is HARD to be hungry, hard to weigh the cost and quality of food against things like the light bill and water bill. People thought I was crazy because I collected kerosene lamps, all shapes and sizes. I'd lived briefly in a place with no electricity and no running water, though, and having such things is a comfort to me. Having them filled and sitting on a shelf now is an even greater comfort. Having a basement full of dehydrated food, and a freezer full of vegies and meats and even fresh-frozen yeast rolls, ready for the oven, makes me feel strong and decisive. Shucks, having a basement at all makes me happy! Having a stack of wood drying against the garage in preparation for next winter's storms, that makes the cast iron stove roar and boil the water pan on top, that heats the whole house upstairs and down, makes me smile and feel content.

My friends still ask, but why Nebraska? Well, the West stole my heart 30 years ago. I've lived in San Antonio, Albuquerque, and Lordsburg, NM. The mountains, the dry air, the wonderful and powerful storms - and the absolute lack of humidity - is inspiring. I was born and raised in Charleston, lived south of there for over 20 years, and the oppressive heat and humidity just wears on me. It's hard to explain to people who have never lived anywhere else. I don't like the ocean - and haven't, since I was a little girl, even though I spent my summers on it. I am inspired by mountains and hills - the mountains are just a few short hours away from me now, and the hills and rivers that surround me are breathtaking. I like being outside, working my muscles and my dirt and my animals outside, not sitting inside in the air conditioning like a beaver in its dam, trying to breathe underwater everytime I step outside.

People here are tougher than those city folk and rednecks I left behind - they don't sit on their porches all day talking about hunting and how country they are; they work from see to cain't see, and are blunt and honest and fun to be around. They don't grouse about what they don't have, and work hard for what they do. They don't care what the rest of the country does. They'll visit it on occasion, but have no interest in living there. While the Libertarians I knew back east ran their yips about the failing government and failing economy, and still shopped at the malls and Wal-Mart, and talked about their great plans for when everything fell down - these people here are true survivalists, because they do it every day. Nothing special. Just healthy, hearty, down-to-earth folk, who don't judge you on appearance, or how well you can argue down at the bar about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but on how much work you do.

In short, I moved to where the food is. It just seemed to make sense - to be where guns and hunting are a way of life and not even worth talking about, where only the teenagers collect trophy heads. To be where the cattle outnumber the people. To be where food grows - not in long endless summers, but in short windows of summer, in between snows. To be where the only trucks that come thru are the ones shipping animals and foodstuffs OUT to market, not in. If the trucks stop, the food stays right here. And it is good food, not preservative-laden and quickfix Applebee's, TGI Friday's, Golden Corral, chinese and mexican and indian and thai and all of those other overhyped and undernourishing things. I hadn't seen a radish in years back east, except for a few thinly sliced ones on salad bars. Here they are in abundance; little sweet peppery things that crunch and melt in your mouth. Nothing special; no fancy sauces or inch-thick breading or desperately exotic flavors. Just good tender meat, fresh vegetables, and pies. OMG, the folks 'round here are the most pie-baking people I know!

Yes, this is what I planned for, hoped for, dreamed about, the whole time I walked about in high heels and silk dresses and hobnobbed with the self-impressed. And now that I have it, I plan on using it, enjoying it, caring for it, and loving it. I plan on staying in my jeans and sweats and getting dirty. I'm enjoying mixing up the horse and chicken manure and compost into fertilizer and usable soil. I'm looking forward to my first big brown, free-range eggs that pop out naturally from a clucking hen, proud to produce and showing off. I'm even looking forward to hanging up the roosters, fat and squawking, by their feet and butchering them for the freezer. Because they are mine, and no one - no one - has a claim to them but me. I don't care if the rest of the world falls down, if the rest of the folk 'out there' riot and demand that the gubbermint feed and clothe and house and drug them, I don't care if the folks I left behind yammer endlessly about their preparations to survive a "Brand New World" in their passionate terrors. No matter what happens, I have my land, my seeds, my animals, and my life - just as I always wanted it. Nothing fancy. Nothing Special.