Field of Dreams

It was a decidely unorthodox decision, diametrically opposed to what average middle-class city-dwelling first-time parents would do.  One might be expected to be disabused of the romance of living small in a city apartment and upgrade to a bigger house.  One might be expected to feel the crushing pressure of finding appropriate schooling and head for the suburban districts.  One might become disenchanted with alternate side parking and trade it in for a driveway.  But these are problems so simple to grasp and easy to fix.  Many city folk had already beaten a well-worn path to nearby locales and following them would be a no-brainer.

But we had several considerations. A place would not too expensive, with low taxes.  A place would allow us access to amenities such as a pool. A place within a decent school district. A weekend place.  A place with something to do.  A place to draw family and friends in the summer time. A place not beyond an hour’s drive, and with public transport nearby. A place where we might be able to forge friendships with other hard-working determined folks.

Beach house.  Country house.  Westchester County. Connecticut. Long Island. New Jersey.  What say you, impossible?  Let’s take close and afforable.  Ha!  Or what about good school and low taxes.  Double ha ha!  Pool amenities and public transport. Does that exist? From this oxymoronic jumble of wishes, emerged another option.

It’s an option that many have run away from as quickly as they could. It’s an option that was industrialized and upsized after World War II.  It’s an option that traditionally stood in stark contrast against university and post-graduate degrees.  Since Dan and I have plenty of the latter, we figured it was a fine time to turn to the root of being human.  In dirt.  Specifically, a farm in the black dirt region in Orange County, NY.

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