A FEW YEARS back, my family made its own venture into the wilderness, moving from the urban sprawl of Los Angeles to the expansive green hills of the Hudson Valley. It’s paradise, yet the climate where we live can be wretched and unforgiving, the land hilly and full of stones. We marvel aloud at the tenacity and sheer strength of this area’s early settlers, the people who cleared all the trees, built the stone walls that still stand. We are awed by what they accomplished, and quite certain we, with our reliance on power tools, the internet, and central heating, would not have a prayer of replicating their achievements.

Novelist and memoirist Gabrielle Burton shares her own amazement at the resilience of our forefathers and mothers in her lucid, provocative novel, Impatient With Desire. The book tells the story of Tamsen Donner, wife of George Donner, leader of the infamous Oregon trail pioneers. To illuminate Tamsen’s circumstances and spirit, Burton gives us her version of Tamsen’s journal. (Burton spent over three decades researching Tamsen’s story, and uses her existing letters, some to her beloved sister, as the basis for some of the narrative and language.)

We learn that Tamsen wanted this adventure as much, perhaps more, than her husband. She was a traveller, and a student, and as much a partner to her husband as her times would allow. And when winter trapped the party in the  Sierra Nevadas and forced the Donners into the cannibalism that made them notorious, Tamsen agonized over how her desire for adventure had led her five children into peril. The novel is wonderful on its own, presenting the darkest circumstances without sensationalizing or moralizing, but even better when read alongside Burton’s memoir of her own family’s retracing of the Donner party’s journey, Searching for Tamsen Donner. Burton helps us understand the deep choices every mother makes between self, partner and children, and in the process, brings to life not just Tamsen, but the others who cleared and clawed their way across the country just 160 years ago.

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MY SON’S DAYS of believing in the unbelievable are growing shorter; I’m pretty sure this is the last year when he’ll accept Santa Claus on faith, though he’s a good sport, and he’ll probably play along for the sake of his sister. But I’m feeling pretty wistful about the end of his belief in magic, so when I discovered two giant pumpkins growing on a vine snaking out of a compost heap I keep ignoring down behind our barn, I decided to try to give him one last gasp of wonder.

I was really proud of myself not only for the inspiration to do this, but for dealing with the planning it took. I found the pumpkins while doing barn chores a few weeks ago; a vine had sprouted and taken over the top of the compost pile and grown three enormous fruits. One had already rotted and collapsed, but the other two were healthy and about as picturesque as could be. I always loved It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, though I must confess that in later life, I find Charlie’s depressive personality a little disturbing. But no matter: the Great Pumpkin is a supernatural holiday being I can get behind.

I found the invitations the kids and I potato-printed last year for the Halloween party we never threw (sigh), and counted on the fact that they wouldn’t remember them. I wrote a note to the kids, signed GP, promising a surprise, and mailed it off. I bought three mini-pumpkins at the market, and wrote clues for a treasure hunt in the yard on them. I even managed to intercept the pumpkin mail (return address: Halloweentown, USA) before the kids found it first. After school last Wednesday, the hunt was on.

I gave them the letter when I picked them up from school; The River read it to his sister. “Who’s GP?” he demanded. “I don’t know. Are there any other clues on the envelope?” Nothing convincing, apparently; he decided that GP must stand for Grandma Peggy, my mother-in-law, who is a champ at mailing the kids cards, and was due to arrive for a visit the next day.

At home, they raced around to look for the surprise. The River found the first baby-pumpkin clue, and they were off. With a little help, they quickly found all three clues, and followed them around behind the barn. In due course, they found the two pumpkins. The Rock was impressed: how did these get here? Must be magic. The River was struggling, though, between wanting to believe, and a growing instinct to analyze and dissect to find a credible truth.

Back at the house, he decided on a plan: handwriting analysis. I, my friend Leslie, visiting for the day, and yes, Grandma Peggy, are all suspects. Looks like a third skeptic is joining this family. But the Rock, bless her, said as she likes to about anything unknown or confounding, “You never know.”

She smiled at her big brother. “I think it WAS the Great Pumpkin.”

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IT IS NOT NEWS to anyone (except maybe a checked-out dad or two) that we moms have a lot of balls: the ones we’re juggling, the ones we’re dodging, the ones flying directly at our heads. (And then there are the big brass ones we bring out when someone raises our maternal hackles, but that’s a story for another post.) When you have that many balls, it’s inevitable that some will drop, and you just pray (or I do anyway) that the ones that go bouncing away will be the ones that matter the least.

And then, there are the other days.

Last Wednesday, I felt good. I’d done my homework for a class I’m taking, I’d written a first, very rough draft of an essay that’s due later in the month, I’d returned calls, opened the mail, and agreed to take on (yet another) responsibility at the kids’ school. I was on top of things. I even managed to remember to pack up my knitting so I’d have something to do while I waited for the Rock at her ballet class, and off I went to do the grocery shopping before picking the kids up at school.

I was midway through the market, planning a healthy, fast dinner for the family (locally-produced chicken sausages! kale and broccoli salad from the garden! celery root from the CSA!) when I realized.

Sure, I’d remembered dinner, and what I’d need to survive ballet, but…I forgot her tights, her leotard, her slippers. Oh, expletive deleted.

I was too far from home to return for the supplies and make it back to school on time. At her very traditional, old school ballet class, there was no way she was going to get to follow along in her school clothes. Just as I was paralyzed with horror at my realization, a friend tapped me on the shoulder. (This happens all the time when you live in a small town. People are always seeing you at your most vulnerable, whether it’s chasing the dog across the lawn in your bathrobe, or bent double in the food coop, pondering the horrible fate that awaits you in the carpool lane.)

Gina wanted to congratulate me on my so-called pie triumph, but I had no time for that. “You have a daughter!” I practically shrieked at her.

“Um, yes…” She clearly couldn’t tell where this was going.

“Where can I buy ballet stuff nearby? Is there anyplace?”

She suggested KMart, the only big box store in our area, and escaped her newly-insane friend as quickly as possible.

KMart had nothing, and my frantic calls to another friend (“Can the Rock borrow your daughter’s dance stuff? Just for an hour?”) went unanswered. I drove off to face the music.

The Rock ran to me. “Mommy! Is today ballet?” Her face was pure joy and sunshine. Ack.

“Mommy made a big mistake, sweetie.” I bent down to her level.

“What, Mama?”

Deep breath. The Rock is prone to tantrums of volcanic scale and destruction. They can sweep in due to the most minor (to me) misunderstanding, and have been know to last for hours. At least it feels like hours. And the one time I committed a similar offense with the River (I forgot his karate uniform) his storm raged for days. I was very, very afraid.

“Iforgottobringyourballetstuffsowecan’tgotoclasstoday. Can you think of something else fun to do during ballet time?”

“Why don’t we go home and get it?” She was all sensible practicality.

“Home is too far. We wouldn’t make it back to class in time.”

“Oh.” She was very, very quiet. She is not a quiet child.

“Can we go get a slice of pizza? I’m hungry.”

“Uh, sure.” I hesitated. “You’re not mad?”

“You made a mistake, Mama. It’s OK.”

Sometimes, even when you think you’re the worst parent in the world, the universe deigns to give you a smidgen of affirmation, that at least some of your juggling is paying off.

(Thanks to Anita of the Ballet Bible for the image of the forgotten slipper…)

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REMEMBER MY SUMMER GOALS? Now that summer is more than one-third past (read that bit again, why don’t you, as you weep into your iced coffee) and I’m about to embark on our few short days of family vacation, I thought I should check in with, um, myself, and err, you all, and ‘fess up to what I’ve done, or not, on that list of mine.

My kids made me do it. Those ambitious little shorties forced me to come to terms with the things that seemed really important to do, see, or experience this summer. Progress is being made, but not all the news is good. Read on…

1. Tomatoes, basil, corn. Too early, too rainy, too cold. These will all have to wait until August, though I did break down and buy a supermarket tomato this week to eat with a salad nicoise I made…from ARUGULA I GREW MYSELF. (Hold your applause until the end, please.)

2. Sun on skin. See above. We had more rainfall in June than in any year since 1903. Even so, today the sun shone, and the Rock and the River and I went swimming in our own pond. My husband is convinced that amoebic dysentery is just around the corner for us all, but the sun on our backs in the cool water felt divine.

3. Fireflies. Going, going, gone, but it stays light so late here, that my kids are always asleep by the time the lightning bugs start to show themselves, anyway. Maybe next year. This year, they made do with sparklers on the 4th of July, which were as close to magic as either child has yet come in their short lives.

4. Bonfire. S’mores. See Number 1, above. Thunderstorms every night=zero campfires, though my kids did have s’mores, they tell me, at their first ever non-family, brother-sister sleepover this weekend. While they were having s’mores, I was having…my husband. Alone. For a whole 16 hours. We owe our friends, big time.

5. Beach, seaglass, crustaceans. We left for four days in Maine Monday. I’ll report back, but signs are promising.

6. A run in the rain. With all the rain we’ve been having, this one should have been a breeze. I’ve been lazy, running mostly on the weekends, not nearly enough during the week, and rain has been an excuse not to. Now that I’ve confessed my sins, I’ll try to do better.

7. Infinite Jest. OK, I’m only about 150 pages in, but progress is being made, people. Considering that I only made it to page 19 the first time I tried to read it (I know exactly where I stopped, because I found the dogeared page when I cracked the book this time). I think hope is in order, even if it’s too early for optimism.

8. A night away with my husband. See Number 4. We were in our own house, but we were alone, and it was free.

9. Stay tighter with my friends. I had a fun meet-up with a bunch of fellow writer/social media type girlfriends last week for brunch. I spent leisurely, lovely time with a couple of L.A. friends I hadn’t seen in a year or so, a high school friend with whom I reconnected at my recent reunion, and am about to see two more of those high school sister-friends in Maine this week. On the downside, I have phone calls and emails from treasured friends lingering unreturned. Two steps forward…

10. Having more fun? Definitely. While I can’t necessarily say I’ve succeeded at the “stress less” part, I’m definitely playing more. I related strongly to this blog post about the importance of play time from a wonderful writer and blogger, Jen Lee. See what you think.

How is your summer going? Is it living up to your expectations? Do you have secret goals you want to confess? C’mon, tell the sisters.

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WHEN THE RIVER was a tiny guy, strangers used to stop us to exclaim about his resemblance to legendary child star and friend-of-Michael-Jackson Macaulay Culkin. If that’s not enough to send a stage-leery mama scurrying from Los Angeles to the hills of rural New York, I don’t know what is. There were other reasons for, and consequences from, our crazy escape from Hollywood to the farm, and this month, they’re chronicled in a story I wrote for Country Living. As a result, I seem to have opened a Pandora’s box of ambition and desire for my photogenic, performance-oriented offspring.

When the issue arrived in our mailbox last week, everyone in the family was fighting over it, wanting mostly to check out their own photographs. “I’m in a MAGAZINE!” the River crowed. “That is SO COOL.” “Where am I?” his sister responded, anxiously. She counted to make sure there was equality between the siblings in terms of number of pictures of each. Phew. Thank you, editors, for keeping relative peace in my home, at least on that score. (The H and I, who didn’t want to be photographed at all, weren’t counting.)

The newness wore off after a couple of days, though I did hear the River announcing his new career as supermodel to some friends at a playdate. I ignored him, and so did they, and I thought the whole thing was blowing over. He’s much more interested in being the next Mick Jagger than just another pretty face.

But then, over the weekend, the Rock started going through the piles of magazines on our kitchen coffee table.

“Where’s my magazine?” she asked, anxiously. “The one with my article?”

“It’s upstairs in my office,” I answered, distracted.

“Well, what about this one?” She held up a copy of Newsweek.

“What about it?”

“Where’s my picture? How come I’m not in this magazine?”

Maybe we need to move to Iceland.

__________

Image above from Country Living, by Lucas Allen

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This is not my tattoo, Mom.

MOTHER’S DAY, A manufactured holiday that can sometimes be second only to Valentine’s Day in overpromising and underdelivering, is mercifully over, once again. This year, mine was exactly right: We went out for a nice lunch with my mom, and some good friends, and the kids mostly behaved, and my other mom friend and I toasted each other with something called a “health margarita,” so named because (in addition to the requisite tequila) it included grapefruit juice.

I got perfect presents: My son drew flowers and wrote “I love you, Mom” on a canvas grocery bag that is now my prized possession, and my daughter made me a painting, drew me a page full of hearts, and wrapped the latter, almost all by herself, in birthday paper.

I gave my mother a couple of books I hoped she’d like, one on gardening, the other a field guide to birds, both titles specific to the region of the country (mine) she now calls home. She’s lived with us now for about two months, and I think we’re all mostly amazed at how well it’s going. Mom says her goal is to not intrude and to not interrupt our peaceful home, and she’s mostly succeeded. My mother is older than she’d like me to write here, older than you’d guess if you met her, and vainer about her age than I ever expected her to be. She’s active, she still works, she’s beautiful and fit and aware and constantly learning new things. She moved to be with me, to be with our kids (ok, more the kids than me) but most of all, I think, to not live alone anymore after too many years that way.

I like to laugh and tell friends that what’s good enough for Michelle Obama is good enough for me. (It’s not just my multi-generational household: I’m working on my arms, and just like her, I put my vegetable garden on the front lawn.)

But after reading Marion’s memories of her and Margaret’s mother’s last years, I realize how lucky I am. I am one of the lucky members of what my friend Rebecca tells me is called the “sandwich” generation: mid-life adults smack in the middle of young children and aging parents, the meat in the familial sandwich. I am lucky because I’m a care-sharer, not a care-giver: My mom is here not by necessity, but by choice.

It’s true that having my mom here gives me a childcare backstop better than any babysitter. But it’s also a rare kind of comfort to feel as an adult: the idea that just upstairs is the person who loves me No.Matter.What. Yes, we grate on each other. Yes, we ask too much of each other sometimes and thank each other too little. But no matter how much we may annoy each other (and, yes, we do), right here: I have my mama.

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There must be another way...

NOW THAT SPRING seems to have really and truly sprung, even in the frigid Northeast where I live, I am struggling not just with finishing my knitting projects, but with getting them started, at all. I blame the garden.

This year, I’m trying, I really am, to make something of the space between my front porch and the street. When my mother decided to move in with us, she held out a carrot: She’d help me plant a garden, yet another skill set she possesses and I (utterly) lack. (My husband will gleefully tell strangers in the nursery that I have a black thumb. Now that’s true love.)

Indeed, bit by bit, row by row, a garden seems to be emerging. Where I once had just lawn, I have raised beds full of rich black earth. Packets of seed crowd my kitchen counter, and I even have tiny green seedlings unfurling toward grow lights from their wee pots in my basement. I am, it seems, finally going to grow something.

But what I am not going to do, now that my rare free time is spent pulling dandelions and misting seed trays, is actually get this cast on. Read that again, and let me be clear: I haven’t even finished casting on. Granted it’s 176 stitches wide, and the needles fine, the yarn even finer…but–nothing. Is it possible that I am destined to be just a foul-weather knitter? Have any of you achieved a balance between growing things in the earth and growing fabric on your needles? I’m looking for help, sisters. (And if you haven’t yet joined our Sister Project group on Ravelry, where this lovely shawl is our next knitalong…clearly, you’ve got plenty of time to join in!)

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WITH ALL THE TALK here on TSP about hand-me-down recipes (some good, some, well, terrifying) I realized I hardly have any from my own family. To make up for the absence of ones to call ours, my kids and I are trying some pioneer recipes, ones straight out of our bedtime stories. An unorthodox place to look for culinary inspiration? Perhaps. But not as crazy as it might seem.

About a month ago, I bought the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, to read to my kids. After getting over my initial disappointment (how dare the publisher change the covers from the iconic pale yellow of my childhood?!) the three of us dug into the story of Laura, Mary, and a simpler, harder life than most of us can even begin to imagine.

Somewhat to my surprise, both kids love these books (we’re now into number two, Little House on the Prairie) and beg for me to read them every night. The River is into history, so he parses every single detail of the building of houses, the butchering of pigs, the possible sightings of Indians in the distance. The Rock, girly to the core, is curious about Laura’s treasured doll, Charlotte, and interested in how a little sister with a big sister gets treated (versus, say, a little sister with a big brother). She’s also partial to any and all information about Pet and Patty, the loyal horses who pulled the Ingalls’ covered wagon out of the Big Woods and onto the Prairie. Both children (and their mother) marvel at the girls’ unwavering obedience to their parents’ rules.

Both kids have eaten up (sorry, couldn’t resist) the tales of pioneer cooking: the candy made from drizzling hot maple syrup onto snow; the johnnycakes cooked over the open fire; the crackly-crunch pig’s tale. So when a fellow Twitterer (you are on Twitter, aren’t you??), talented food writer Merrill Stubbs, mentioned that there’s a Little House cookbook, I had to have it.

Merrill recommends the Little House doughnuts, so that’s going to be our first attempt at 19th century pioneer cuisine.

Do you have family-recipe traditions that predate your or your parents’ generation? Anastasia kindly served up her grandmother’s tripe (oh my) and Marion’s threatened to share her mother-in-law’s spam chop suey (yikes)–can anyone else offer anything more appetizing? There’s a barbecue sauce I grew up eating on ribs. It originated in my father’s father’s house, and that’s all I can say. I am sworn to secrecy when it comes to the elixir known in the Smith family as “David’s Sweet Sauce.”

My mom has passed along a couple of favorites, but she’s more likely to bake us a pie than write down the recipe for it (not that I’m complaining). But that’s about it: Further back, I don’t know my culinary history, so why not make some doughnuts?

Doughnuts, from The Little House Cookbook by Barbara M. Walker (Harper Collins, 1989)

Merrill suggested sprinkling some of these with a cinnamon sugar mixture, which sounds like a winner to me!

For 2 dozen doughnuts you will need:

2 pounds lard (I will probably substitute peanut oil, my choice for frying)
1 egg
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup sour cream
2¼ cups of unbleached all-purpose flour
a shaker full of powdered sugar

quart kettle
quart bowl
rolling pin
candy thermometer

Melt the lard in kettle over low heat. Beat egg, baking soda, and salt into the sour cream in the bowl. Beat in 1 cup of flour until well mixed. Continue to work in flour, ¼ cup at a time, until you have a dough that can be rolled. Roll the dough in a strip about 4 by 16 by ¼ inches. With a floured knife cut into inch strips about five eighth inch wide.

Heat the lard to 375 degrees F. Twist a strip like a corkscrew (it will stretch as you do); bring ends together and pinch them. Drop twisted dough in hot fat. In 2 minutes the dough should be brown on both sides, crisp and cooked through. If browning takes more than 3 minutes, the fat is not hot enough; if browning takes less time, the fat is too hot.

Remove cooked doughnut to brown paper to drain and coat it with powdered sugar.  Continue twisting and cooking the remaining dough strips.  Serve the doughnuts immediately.

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AS SOON AS MY SON, aka The River, could walk, he wanted to ride as well. When we lived in Los Angeles, we lived near an enormous public park crammed with kid stuff–playgrounds, train rides, a big carousel, and pony rides. We took him on a lark, thinking he wasn’t really old enough to circle around on a pony, even with the special saddle strapped around his waist to hold him in place. Judging from the expression on his face in this picture, we were wrong.

When we made the gigantic decision to uproot our family and move 2856 miles across the country (but who’s counting?), we found ourselves with an absurdly fortunate problem. The house we were working to buy came with a bonus: two barns, the oldest one originally part of a dairy farm, but converted by the time we got it into stalls for horses, the other a newer building meant as a riding space for horses.

It never occurred to me that I might live with horses. I rode them at summer camp, even toyed with taking riding lessons “for real” in college, but never went any farther. Riding, let alone keeping and caring for horses, always seemed an absurd luxury, one unlikely to be part of my family’s day-to-day life. But as we planned for this move, it seemed crazy not to ride.

We found a stable and trainer (yep, in that enormous L.A. park) and started taking lessons together every weekend. Our favorite horse was a gentle giant, a 25-year-old warmblood gelding named Trooper. We took turns (not the Rock, who not yet 2, was definitely too small to participate) and encouraged each other to develop balance and confidence. None of us advanced much, but we had fun, and loved the sweet smell of the barn, playing hide and seek with the barn cats, learning to brush and groom the giant beasts who so graciously allowed us to climb atop their backs.

After we settled down from the chaos of moving, the River asked if he could take riding lessons. (Actually, I’m pretty sure he first asked for his own horse, which sent the H off in search of a cocktail, and me into an involved explanation of why that was not going to happen, no matter what kind of buildings he saw just down the hill from his house.) Instead, I found a sweet teacher with gentle horses, and he started taking lessons. The Rock tagged along, nuzzled the pet bunnies who also lived there, and generally ignored the whole process of riding. At home, the River learned to ride his bicycle in the dirt-floored riding arena, and we kept chickens in a couple of the horse stalls. The buildings were not, perhaps, living up to their potential, but at least we hadn’t neglected them completely.

When the River’s schedule changed and we had to find him a new teacher, the Rock dutifully came along with us on Saturday mornings. The new teacher had a bigger barn, with boarding horses as well as her own, and the Rock happily fed carrots to the horses and “helped” the teenage riders who worked mucking stalls and grooming on weekends. But she never asked to get on a horse. We set her in the saddle once or twice, the teacher led her around, but she didn’t have much to say about it one way or the other. The H and I went back to our lessons, too, and secretly, I think, exhaled relief that we were not parenting a horse-crazed little girl. The River had given up asking for his own horse, and perhaps his sister would never start.

One sunny afternoon early last fall, a woman and her daughters pulled into our driveway. They knew the woman who’d owned our land before, the one who’d turned the old dairy barn into a stable, who’d built the riding arena and put up the fencing to create paddocks. Would we consider letting their family rent some stall space for the winter?

Kristen wasn’t the first person who’d approached us about using our barns. Others had called, or left notes tacked on the fence posts, or approached us through a friend or neighbor, and we talked to them all. We never felt ready to take the leap. Some wanted to run a boarding stable in our front yard: not our cup of tea. Another wanted to put some of his beautiful Black Angus cattle in our field, which was aesthetically appealing but a lot of livestock cohabitation for two non-farmers to contemplate. Something about Kristen was different. The H went to visit her barn, where she boards retired horses, and watched two of her daughters, 12 and 8, ride. Something about her, her family, and her way with horses made us say yes.

When winter came, so did Kristen and her horses, and suddenly our fields and barn came to life. Two horses and two ponies now stood out in the fields every morning, blanketed on the cold days, frolicking in the snow when the sun was out. We’d sometimes go down when we knew the family was there working, watching them clean stalls, tack up their horses, work them out when it was warm enough.

The River had stopped his lessons for the winter; it was too windy and cold at our teacher’s barn. Kristen asked if we wanted her to let him ride Zoey, a sweet ginger-colored pony, at our house one (slightly) warm afternoon, and none of us could resist. The Rock followed us all into the barn, watching as her brother adjusted his helmet and climbed into the saddle. “Can I have a turn, too?” I looked at Kristen, who shrugged a “Why not?”

I don’t know where to place the blame for what followed. Maybe sibling rivalry kicked in, or maybe Zoey, the bombproof sweet pony, was just irresistible. The Rock put on her bike helmet, since none of us had a riding helmet small enough. She didn’t have riding boots, so her rubber rain boots substituted. She sat so tall in the saddle that she looked like she’d grown 2 inches. “Do you know what to say to make Zoey move?” Kristen asked, after securing the rains and shortening the stirrups. “Walk on, Zoey,” said a tiny voice. The River watched silently as his little sister showed us all what a natural rider looks like: perfectly balanced, even riding with no hands. “Oh, you’re in trouble,” laughed Kristen.

Since that day, the kids have ridden Zoey more and more. The River is struggling with what he doesn’t yet know how to do: “It’s your fault I can’t canter, Mom! You made me stop riding this winter!” while the Rock gleefully trills, “Did you see me trot?” And I find myself torn between feeling thrilled for my daughter, who does seem to have an innate talent for riding, even at 4, and sorrow for my son, who is having the first experience he’s ever had of being bested by his younger sibling. Mind you, the Rock has had to live with this her whole life, watching her brother easily perform tasks that left her out in the cold.

The River’s frustration came to a head this week, when he stomped out of the barn. “I’m not riding today. I don’t know why, but I just don’t want to.” Meanwhile, there’s the girl who’s usually his little mimic and shadow, twirling around on Zoey’s back to touch her toes. I don’t want him to stop riding, but I also don’t know how to help him find the confidence to go on, faced with the possibility that his little sister might have found something she can do better. Will this cure him of his perfectionism, or turn into an opportunity to bash his sister? And what to do about the fact that, in spite of our early hesitation, this winter also brought us our own horse, a retired racer named Dacos? Stay tuned.

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NOPE, IT’S NOT that I’m a famous sister (remember her older sister, Zsa Zsa? Was there ever a better name?) since as you all know by now, I am an only (though hardly lonely). Nor am I Hungarian, and I’ve only been married once (though there’s still time, I suppose, I think I’m unlikely to make it to Eva’s lofty achievement: five trips down the aisle).

Remember Green Acres? You might say that’s the story of my life.

Two years ago, almost exactly, my family and I moved from a home in Hollywood, where I had lived for the previous 16 years, to a farm in a (very) rural area of upstate New York. Call it a midlife crisis, call it insane–you might be right on both counts. My husband (who online, is usually known simply as The H) and I decided to get out of our urban life for something utterly different.

Fresh eggs, from our chickens

Instead of rats in the palm trees in the backyard, we have hens (and a rooster) in the barn. Though we still have coyotes, we also now have horses. Rather than a postage-stamp sized city yard, we now have woods, fields, and even a pond and creek. We thought, rightly I think, that this environment would be paradise for the River (our son, 7) and the Rock (our daughter, soon-to-be 4.) What we didn’t know, though we had theories, was how it would affect all four of us to move from an unqualified ratrace to a place where the fastest moving thing is the runoff from the melting snow (or a horse bolting from the paddock–but that’s another story.)

The barn, in winter

We didn’t know much of anything about living in a small, SMALL town, and my poor husband, a Southern California native, had absolutely no idea what he was getting into moving to a place with five months of winter.

With the seasons about to (thank heavens) change, I thought it was only fair to share this part of my story, the story of one of the biggest changes I’ve ever made, with the sisters. Stay tuned for more about my life in Green Acres, and about the new sisters I’ve found here.

And how about you? Have you ever upended your life? Would you do it again? Tell us.

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