Growing up on a gravel road about 10 miles outside the limits of Clinton, Mississippi, the 15 or so minutes into town often meant the difference between yes and no. Why we couldn’t have pizza for supper (because mom and dad weren’t in the mood to go pick up from Mazzio’s). Why some friends didn’t make it to my slumber party (because their parents didn’t feel like driving to the boonies and back again).
When I searched Google Maps for my old address, I got nostalgic looking at the street view, which didn’t even show the house, covered as it were by a line of trees. In my mind’s eye, though, I could see the gate to the long driveway, the one I used to trek down on summer days to check the mail in the hopes of finding a letter from a friend; the pond’s pier from which my brother and I would throw dog kibble to entice the monster catfish to emerge; and my mom’s many flower gardens and vegetable patches that I once begrudgingly watered. A menagerie of dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, and a few farm animals over the years. I could recall the clear night skies twinkling with stars and lightning bugs, quiet except for a chorus of frogs, crickets, and the occasional dog bark. But back then, the heat, humidity, and mosquitoes pushed me indoors to the air conditioning and whatever book I happened to be reading that day.
Living in the San Francisco Bay Area for almost 13 years, I regularly traveled a half hour or more to meet up with friends in the city or on the Peninsula. I could also walk to multiple restaurants, grocery stores, the library, post office, friends’ houses, and public transportation. I loved that convenience, that closeness.
I also loved the urban “farmlet” Bryon and I created over the ten years in our home. The oasis was filled with apple trees, olives, almonds, citrus, a bevy of berries, and raised beds that rotated through peppers, eggplant, beans, peas, squash, and enough tomatoes to satisfy my cravings for sandwiches, salads, sauces, and a couple rounds of canning. We even expanded to chickens who lived in the homemade coop and kept us stocked in fresh eggs. Every morning they would cluck and squawk to demand treats or congratulate each other on their laying success, while I worried their noise would disturb our too-close neighbors. Between not having enough room to keep bees or add more trees, we realized we had outgrown our space.
After staging and selling our house, Bryon and I loaded up a travel trailer with our two dogs and a limited supply of food, clothes, and tools. We made our way along I-5 through Oregon and Washington in search of our farm. We looked at hundreds of properties online and a little more than twenty in person. If the land was ideal, usually the house needed a ton of work. If the house ticked the boxes, the land wasn’t conducive to our plans.
But then we drove down Boistfort Road, and it just felt right. The sweeping view, green meadows, garden full of veggies and berries, and the hot tub on the back patio. The house was in need of some updates, but it was in good shape. After a second visit, we made an offer and set the wheels in motion.
Just over a month later, we moved in. After a fresh coat of paint and the delivery of our furniture, it really started to feel like home. Now, we just have to figure out the farm part of the equation!