Ch 1: A cry for help or a step toward the dream?

Chapter 1: From the top

The current debate amongst our families and friends is if our recent decision to relocate to the Virginia hills brings us a step closer to our lifelong dream of owning a farm, or is a desperate cry for help. But before we get into that, some background:  

The girl…

As a somewhat prickly, asymmetrical peg, I’ve never fit well into the smooth, round hole that society so neatly dug for me.  As a rebellious child with wild, unkempt hair I’d dug in the dirt and played in the woods while my more well-groomed friends watched cable television from their air-conditioned, suburban homes. In the uncomfortable high school years; I was a 100-pound, trash-talking, foul-mouthed thing, who mostly ran with the boys who drove big trucks.  My girlfriends often shook their heads and whispered. I drifted further and further from the expectations of the teen girl to wear skirts and makeup and talk about cute boys. To say the least, good girls certainly did not drink beer at rowdy parties in the woods.

The boy…

Byron, was a kind, bull-riding ranch hand. Having first met at the age of 12 in 4H, we were good friends long before we started dating in high school. Living fast and furiously, we dated off and on until graduation when he left for the Army.  I cried ceaselessly and dramatically for at least a week. I assumed, we were finished but we were married within a year; at the very mature and wise age of 19.  To say the least, our friends and families expressed shock, chagrin, dismay, shame, and so, so much more.  They were also, of course, positive that I was “knocked up”.  Why the hell else would we do something so incredibly irresponsible?

The dance…

For the last 23 years, we have put forth our very best efforts to prove everyone wrong. We have been as grown-up and responsible as humanly possible.  After Byron’s 8 years in the Army, he got his degree in engineering and has dutifully worked as a mechanical engineer.  I, on the other hand, never had much success staying in one lane very long, whether it was the locality of domicile or field of employment.  Byron says its gypsy blood.

Beginning adult life with the intention of becoming a veterinarian, I was a mom when I finished my undergrad degree.  Consequently, the idea of signing on for another 4 years of school didn’t hold much appeal at that time.  “No worries, I have a degree I’ll find an amazing job”, said so many schmucks before me.  I was quite surprised to discover that there wasn’t much out there for a chick with an undergrad degree in zoology! Weird right? I ended up working part-time for the same company my husband worked for, allowing me to do all of the requisite “good mommy” stuff; the drop-offs and pick-ups from school, field trips, classroom parties, soccer practice, and games, etc., etc., etc.

We now live in the lush suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Byron is respectably employed as a mechanical engineer and I, as a registered nurse. Our 20-year-old son, Jackson (Note the 3-year gap between nuptials and birth-take that judgy family and friends!), is about to begin his junior year at Virginia Tech. He is an engineering student and military cadet.  We must not have screwed up too bad, right?  Well, hold my beer and just give me a minute…

The 12-year itch?

Despite the unglamorous career path, things were great for several years. However, after moving to Richmond, VA, for Byron’s job, I started to feel a little restless.  Jackson didn’t need (want) me hanging out in his classroom all of the time anymore. 

First came the, “I’ll get a master’s degree in forensic science” semester. This semester terminated with the, “wait, working in a lab all day everyday sounds kinda dull” realization. In direct succession, the, “being a nurse sounds fun” phase began.  (Anyone who has gone through nursing school and done time as a medical-surgical nurse in a hospital is laughing their ass off right now.) It was something that I could do from anywhere and I would never have a problem finding a job.

Byron and I have toed the supernormal, fully functional, (ok, mostly normal and moderately functional), suburban family line all of these years. All the while, it has been our dream to own property and to have a farm.  Not just any farm, but specifically, a sustainable, regenerative-agriculture, pasture-raised meat and eggs farm.  This was mainly just a pipe dream. That is to say, we never really saw ourselves leaving the safety, security, and civilization the suburbs offered to do something so crazy.  We did such a good job of convincing everyone how responsible and wise we are, including ourselves, that we forgot we are actually f-ing nuts!

The leap…

On a beautiful spring evening in June, Byron and I sat on the porch enjoying our Friday, FTSO, (f&#k this shit o’clock), cocktail.  As a gypsy, I try to stay current on the goings-on here and there. Thus, I had been keeping an eye on the local real estate happenings for the last few years. That evening, I realized several houses in our neighborhood had gone on the market and sold within a week, and for higher than asking prices.  In other words, the home values were shooting up!  This was almost 3 months into the COVID disaster, and it was kind of a shock.  We decided in that moment that it was time to sell the house and get out of town. 

Maybe it was the empty nest syndrome, maybe it was the Kraken and Coke, maybe it was just fate. Whatever the case, we gave ourselves 1 month to get the house ready to sell.  (It was definitely the Kraken and Coke). 

Divorce court?

One month later…several pounds lighter, sleep-deprived, delirious, and divorce-ready, Byron and I were 75% sure we were going to make the deadline when the realtor called “just wanted to see how things were going.” 

Me: “Well, we are pretty confident we’re going to be ready by the deadline.”

Realtor: “Oh, ok. That works. But it’d be better if it were ready by Thursday. That way we can catch all of the buyer traffic before the 4^th of July weekend.”

Me: “Really?  You think it will make a difference? I don’t think it will matter that much.”

Realtor: “Yeah, people will be going out of town instead of looking at houses so it would be best…”

I will spare you all of the bloody details, but by the grace of God, we made it by Thursday. In spite of my irritation, it turns out it was probably pretty good advice.  We sold the house the day we listed it.  But of course, it would be selfish of me not to share the details leading up to that:

The day before the house was to go on the market we were receiving text updates from the realtor. There were 4 showings scheduled, and they were to begin at 9 AM. “What do you plan to do with your dog?” he says. 

“We figured we’d take him with us.” I replied.

“Yeah, that will be good. You should also take his bed and stuff. Oh, and what about your cat?” he says!

“Um, leave him here?” I replied incredulously.

“It would be better if you took him too, and all of his stuff.  You know, some people are allergic and don’t want to buy a house a cat has been in.”

“For real? You’re joking right?” I asked. 

“No, it’s true.” says the guy!

“How in the hell are we going to drive around with our cat and dog and all of their stuff? For 4 hours?” I demanded at Byron. 

“It will be fine. This will be the only time we’ll have to do it, and it’s only for a few hours.”

Thursday…

9:00 am Thursday morning. We scrambled to get ourselves, our cat, dog, and all of their belongings out the door or hidden from view. We felt like hungover housesitters trying to clean up water bongs and Solo cups after throwing a bawdy party when the homeowners, unexpectedly pull the Mercedes into the drive two days early. Meanwhile, the first scheduled potential buyers sat disapprovingly and impatiently, in their car on the street.

Finally out the door and, on the road, it took about 30 minutes for the texts to start again. “Got another showing!” the realtor says.  While exciting at first, after about the 4^th call, the realization set in. We would be driving around with the dog and the cat, oh, and the cat’s litter box, (He’s not exactly car trained. What if he has to pee?), for at least 8 hours. Stuff got real. Quick. By the end of the night, finally allowed back into our house, we had 3 offers waiting for us. Furthermore, one of which was substantially more than we were asking!  “Woohoo, we sold our house!!”  We. Sold. Our. House. Oh, And, we would close in less than a month! 

A cry for help or a step toward the dream?

The very next day would begin the exciting, yet scary AF, wild next installment of the chronicles. The search for the magical place where our dream farm will spring forth into existence. 

Caution informative and interesting facts ahead (and some BS too)

This is the part where I try to give you some useful or interesting information, after hopefully entertaining you, (rather than lulling you to sleep). I thought some of you might be interested in learning what exactly a regenerative farm is.  If this is you, please read on!   Click the link below to find out more!

Find out more

If there is ever something you are wondering about or would like more info on, please ask!  I love to know what interests you and what doesn’t.

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