Green Acres is the place for me
The moment I stepped through the broken front door, images of “Green Acres” played in my head. The dark wood paneling, shag rugs and rundown barn on the property were instantly (IMHO) a perfect match for my canopy bed, crystal chandeliers and gilded mirrors. When I slid open the closet door in the master bedroom, it fell from its track, crashing to the floor, and I (literally) shrieked with glee. As Dharma (the wonder dog) raced happily from room to room, I sat back and declared that “farm livin’ is the life for me!”
Within a matter of days, the deal was done. Sitting on the porch, high on a hill with spectacular views and very few neighbors (eccentric or otherwise), my new life began to take shape as I began the arduous task of sorting, packing and working out the details. Passing through Hortonville on one of my many treks out to Green Acres, I couldn’t help but notice even more similarities to the fictional locale of the show.
Replete with broken washing machines out back, and a barn filled with the flotsam and jetsam of past owners, the reality of making the place ready for myself and the dog became clear, and I recalled more details of Oliver and Lisa’s existence on the farm, which made me keenly aware that it could be years before I get the place in shape.
Wonderful new neighbors have already stopped by; one local woman offered to mow, and her dad assured me that my plowing (come winter) would be taken care of. More phone calls, including a search for an Internet connection and whether mail delivery would have to be picked up at the “general store,” conjured up images of having to climb the pole out back, simply to make a phone call. When I realized that it didn’t matter, I felt waves of relief wash over me, knowing that I was home, while considering adopting a pig.