So, the reason I had a Crazy Farm Plan was lost in the craziness of Crazy Farm Plan. Every time I whined for CFP, I was actually sending myself a message that I did not receive because I am about as self aware as a Little Devil Potted Meat Food Product.
Also, because I was distracted by pastoral fantasies involving goats frolicking amongst the chickens and growing my own mad vines of lush zucchini that might well TAKE OVER THE WORLD with relentless squashy manifest destiny. Zuchini are like that.
But there WAS a secret message, and the message was this: Joshilyn, you want to move.
See, when we first came here, this WAS a small town, and I loved it. There was a thriving little downtown. There was a fireworks thing every fourth, so smallish I knew ALMOST EVERYONE THERE. I had a horse named Parker that I called Parker Posey Pony Horse.
And then as the years went on, Atlanta came out and ATE us and we lost our wonderful independent dorky small town restaurants and got a mall instead. When we came we had NO Wal-Marts, and now I can spit in three directions and hit one. There was no traffic, and now umpty hundred housing developments happened and I might as well be driving in Atlanta.
I did not notice how unhappy I was because there are good things here. Julie. My kids’ school. My church. My personal house, on my personal cul de sac with my personal neighbors. These are all so very nice.
And so I ignored how every time we went out we were driving 45 minutes to Decatur or 45 minutes to Marietta, because with very few exceptions that’s where all my friends live and where everything I like to do happens.
Scott hates Crazy Farm Plan SO much. He is not a farmer. He likes cutting edge technology. He likes pool halls. He likes going to bars to hear people play songs. He likes DINERS, and little locally owned holes in the wall with great burgers. We BOTH really like crazy mission hearted liberal churches full of dirty hippies, big farmers markets, poetry readings, live theatre, beer and wine festivals, and world class book festivals. I love towns with great walkability (I loathe driving!) and I like working in dark independent coffee houses and going to hot yoga.
Scott’s point is, You can’t find any of this stuff on a farm. I ignored this because farms have GOATS, instead, and I LOVE goats. Scott ignored my ignoring this, because goats have GOAT POOP and he feared he would end up being the guy wielding the goat poop shovel.
This is a valid, valid fear.
Not I WANT A FARM.
Not I AM STUCK HERE
Not IT TOOK ME FORTY MINUTES TO GET HOME FROM HOT YOGA AND ALL MY INNER PEACE IS GONE AND I JUST WANT TO ATTACK TRAFFIC WITH MY FANGS AND EAT IT ALL AND GIVE THE EARTH TO THE BEES.
Just this: I want to live in Decatur.
And once it occurred to me that what I REALLY wanted was to live in Decatur, I said it to Scott. Rabidly. With FOAM coming out and desperate manic crazy-farm-plan eyes.
But instead of saying “Ahhh, I take it the book has started working? Go have a hot bath and a wine,” he said, “What a good idea! I want to live in Decatur, too.”
Scott pointed out that if we want to live in Decatur, it is kinda a thing to do NOW. Because interests rates are SO low, but that is about to change, economists say. Housing prices, also LOW. In a few years? We may not be able to even dream of making this move.
“Do you know it is legal to raise Chickens in Decatur City Limits?” I said to Scott last night.
And he patted my cheek and said, “Hush.”
Apparently, much like goats, chickens make poop. *sigh*