Ginny and Vic bought the farm next to Sap Bush Hollow and moved up from Long Island about fifteen years ago, and quickly became a part of our daily life, teaming up with haying, sharing barn space, co-grazing our livestock together. When their daughter, Heather, decided to leave the rat race of her own Long Island life and come to these hills to be with her parents, both families were certain we would be friends. We were both in our mid-twenties, and if all went well, we’d have each other for the rest of our West Fulton days.
And so both families arranged to have dinner at a local restaurant, where we could meet. She had a thick Long Island Accent, was freshly made-up, wore designer boots, and would periodically get up from the table to have a cigarette. My hair was in the same braid I’d slept in for the past two nights, but I was relatively dressed up too, in my opinion, since I’d worn my cleanest Carhartts.
We were like oil and water. We made polite conversation, but couldn’t find a single thing in common. At the end of the dinner, to be polite, I invited her out to a contra-dance that was taking place in our local grange hall that evening.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a social dance, with a caller and a band.”
“Like, square dancing shit?”
“Kind of, but with more people.”
“If I go to that, I’m likely to punch someone in the face.”
I didn’t push the issue. But to her credit, she tried to reciprocate my hospitality with an alternative social option:
“Let’s go down to Cobleskill and do a trifecta.”
“What’s that?”
“Three bars. We go drink in all three of them.”
“I think I’d rather put a pointy stick in my eye.”
We’d found one thing we had in common: we were equally blunt.
Time wore on, and out of mutual courtesy, we generally avoided each other’s company. Recognizing our clash, our families didn’t push it. But one day, while helping her dad make hay, she met my long-time bachelor neighbor, Frank. They fell in love. They had a baby boy, Frank John.
I knitted him a pair of booties, bagged up some of my salves and soaps and hung them on the door of their house when no one was home. They reciprocated with a bottle of wine at Christmas, dropped off when we weren’t there. We became experts at exchanging neighborly pleasantries without coming into contact.
But raising kids in a mountain town that has been steadily losing its population for the last 40 years is a lonely business. There are only a few families with children up here, and our experiences are the same. We meet folks from the villages in the valley, but they don’t want to bring their kids up the mountain. Birthday party invitations get ignored. Playdates are few and far between, and require major scheduling efforts if village families are to agree to them. For the valley families, us mountain folks simply aren’t convenient.
Slowly, I began to pay more attention to the comings and goings of Heather and Frank. I wondered how they were faring with the baby. I knew that raising an infant isn’t too bad up here, as long as you’ve got family support, which they did. But I began to wonder how they’d cope as he grew older and needed to play with other kids.
I screwed up my courage one early summer day last year and made a phone call, inviting them over for drinks. They drove from next door. We sat outside, because Bob was afraid to show them our dirty house (even though we’d frantically cleaned for almost an hour before they came).
And, believe it or not, we sat and talked. And talked. I watched Heather with Frank John. She was the kind of mom I liked – one who didn’t panic if his hands got dirty or if he took a spill. She didn’t blindly follow doctor’s orders, took the time to cook a good meal for her family each night, and insisted on “please” and “thank you” from the get-go.
Another four weeks went by. Heather made another move. She called and asked if Saoirse and Ula would help her around the house by playing with Frank John, so she could catch up on laundry and dishwashing.
From there, a friendship slowly began to grow, to the point where the girls and I meander over to her house one afternoon each week. It would seem that none of the ordinary friendship conditions of common interests are in place. She wears high heels to work every day. I go barefoot. She collects designer handbags. I collect dust bunnies. She watches TiVo, I prefer to knit. She drinks vodka. I usually bring my own herbal tea.
But underneath, there are fundamental commonalities that steer our friendship. She may like high heels and lipstick, but she honors her parent’s love of farming, and she helps them make it happen. She is here for her family. She is committed to this place, with all it’s imperfections. She doesn’t abandon ship and move away because she doesn’t like the school, or because there aren’t enough activities, or because the region lacks urban sophistication. She watches the sun come up over the mountain ridge each morning and snaps a photo. Like me, she wants the soil to remain fertile, the air to stay fresh, the water to stay clean.
In my journey writing and speaking about sustainable living, I often hear stories of migration: people seeking to leave behind families and imperfect friendships for the sake of finding the model neighborhood; with the proper balance of cultural diversity; the quintessential Waldorf school; progressive politics where the vote goes their way; where there are ethnic restaurants to expand their children’s culinary horizons; ample enrichment opportunities for young minds; and a bountiful crop of intelligent parents and sophisticated and interesting children living just around the block from which to pluck one’s friends.
We don’t all get to have that. Sometimes we just have to pick a place and stay put. We can usually make it better for our being there, but maybe not in all the ways we’d like. And when it comes to making friendships, we can’t always spend our time with like-minded individuals. Sometimes the kindred spirit votes differently, dresses differently, eats differently. But they live next door, and they are as committed to that gritty, imperfect place as you are. Maybe it will take fifteen years for a friendship to grow out of those conditions. But if both parties are committed to staying put, there’s plenty of time to make it happen.
I always look forward to your blog and enjoy your words of wisdom…thank you!
Hoo boy, this is the truth. When we moved to our little farm, I blithely assumed my family would find friends in our new community. We extended a hand whenever possible and even put our kids in school for a time thinking it would help us establish roots. I didn’t expect to find condemnation, ongoing feuds, and threats. It reached a level of absurdity that I describe with far too much sarcasm in this essay: http://www.pendulinepress.com/author-article-archives/newcomers-to-gods-country/
But we persisted. We found our own Heathers and Franks. We don’t share similar opinions or interests. Sometimes I feel as if I’m dimming a part of myself in order to get along, but I know my friends are doing the same in order to get along with me. What does matter is that we talk, laugh, and help each other out. These are as rich, perhaps richer connections then I might find in a community where I agree with every bumper sticker. Although I do miss ethnic restaurants….
Shanon, I love your posts and I’ve read “Radical Homemakers” three times. However, I encounter the same challenges you talk about, but I live in a garden home neighborhood with a small yard. I do everything I can do live simply. I’m not a consumer of merchandise and I reduce, reuse, and recycle. I don’t shop and accumulate. And I’m very happy living simply. (My friend, who lives 250 miles from me, and I call it living gently on our blog: http://www.livemoregently.blogspot.com). BUT I have zero friends in my geographic area who share my values on simplicity. I keep my eyes and ears open for those who may, but I haven’t found them yet. I sooooooo yearn for a friend (BTW, I have many, many friends) who shares my interest and commitment to simplicity. In the meantime, I read every book on simplicity that I can find and every blog, so: Thanks for your blog.
I understand your pining, Sammie, and I LOVE the expression “living gently.” One time, when we were younger, Bob proposed we move to a place where we would find more like-minded souls. I countered that we needed to make that place happen in our own backyard. And it seems to me that, by living gently, as you call it, and by loving those around us without judgment, our values infuse the community we are a part of. Sometimes I wonder if it is even more valuable to work this way, than to find a friend who shares all the same values. Because if we have similar people around all the time, would we only talk to each other, and stop mixing with the mainstream culture? I’m curious what others think.
Hi Shannon. Great post. Personally, I think we all need like-minded friends, but they may not live in our geographic area. I’m posting from Co. Waterford in Ireland, for example. As for the people who do surround us, while the clash of cultures can sometimes be painful, it does prevent us becoming what religious people term just ‘ a holy huddle of the like-minded.’ Thanks again for your wonderful contribution to the Climate gathering in Dublin. It continues to resonate with me, particularly since I am down here near my brother’s farm, and spending some time on it.
How wonderful to hear from you, Breda! Yes, I agree that like-minded friends are necessary, even if they are geographically scattered. I think it makes it a lot easier to enjoy the mix of personalities that can be found in anyone’s backyard. And I am thankful that you and Brendan are among that mix. I do hope our paths will cross again soon.
Now that my own children have fledged, I am turning my large old Victorian home on a corner lot in the San Francisco Bay Area into a shared home. My partner and I intend something of an urban homestead/Transition Town effort. We too assumed that we’d select our housemates based upon commonality and like-minded conservation. We’d share bulk food buys and want to create a garden together, maybe also combine some creative making since we are both creatives. We’d share the same values, life experiences, and be concerned about the same issues.
Well, we now have two wonderful housemates, 25 and 34, …our children’s ages. Both are first generation Asian-Americans, well-educated in fields in which my partner and I have only general knowledge. Many of the vegetables they eat regularly are new to us. We’ve had a few shared cooking lessons around daikon cakes (their lesson) and lamb stew (our lesson), but for the most part TJ and I enjoy the smells and just look on with interest. We can’t quite figure how to share any food purchases, save an occasional, “I have this leftover scallion. Can you use it in any of your planned meals?”
I admit that I have no inclination, or time, to do what they do in the kitchen. After a full day of work, they both return and happily spend hours making their meals for one. I work at home, free lance, and cook using the dual premise of saving my time and precious resources. I have honed my technique down to one-pot earthy American family cooking in less than an hour with as many healthy short-cuts as I can figure out: How few pots and utensils can I use and not have to take time to wash that uses more water? How long does that tomato sauce really have to simmer to meld the spices? Could I save some energy by cooking it for 20 minutes less, …and also save myself enough time to finish that project waiting for me in my studio?
But we love these housemates. They’re kind, generous, work hard to make the household a place of support with small gifts and moments, the way people with dissimilar interests can. We have grown to enjoy the surprise and pleasure of the gifts as the glue that makes our home work, without the homesteading expectations. Yes, I still have to remind the younger graduate student about washing with less water, and sorting the recycling and compost. It’s a whole new thing. We’re growing that awareness in our housemates, and I feel good that they might carry that out into the world when they leave us.
For now, Melissa loves when one of my corn muffin appears in her part of the fridge for lunch the next day, and she offers TJ and I her adventure into red bean, or green tea muffins.
We are just finishing up the third and final suite for one more housemate. I wonder what gifts he or she will bring to us?
I could not agree more, mixing it up, compromise, listening to everyone is really what life is about. It is easy and comfortable to be with the others who reflect ourvalues and ourselves (even physically), it pushes me to grow to be around all different kinds of people.
thank you for this