My immediate pre-BSF life was in a semi-rural suburb of Chicago. You see, I had spent nearly 20 years living in the city. I was totally urban, if not urbane. But when I hit 40 I needed a new adventure and I moved 40 miles out of town. I had always wanted to live on a farm. I even discovered an essay I wrote in junior high school that described my adult life on a farm. And moving gave me the opportunity to manage an acre of grass and garden PLUS drive 75 minutes each way to and from work every day. Not to mention shoveling the 120 foot driveway every time it snowed. And by shoveling I mean me and a shovel. No power snow blowers or anything like that.
My work life existed in the television documentary production business. I managed a company that made news-based tv docs. If I said what it was, you would recognize it. But I'm not going to because it ended all very unpleasantly with my job being eliminated in an effort to get me to leave. That's an effective method. I suppose I might have left sooner, my Maalox bill was adding up, but serious mentors encouraged me to wait it out as I had done nothing wrong. I understand that the people who took over when I exited did end up doing wrong, or being suspected of wrongdoing in any event. I say that with no factual evidence, but I trust my sources.
So I found myself jobless, living in a semi-rural suburb of Chicago with one large dog, three cats, and five chickens. [Aside, my house in the suburbs was the original farmhouse around which a subdivision had grown up. I still had a full acre and a chicken coop, so I populated it. Illegally, but the neighbors were tickled with the clucking and crowing.]
Back to jobless. I was 42, jobless, husband/partner-less, and for a while quite aimless. But I had a serious mortgage and a momentary window through which to cast a fantasy. I was offered work in the city, but decided I wanted to pursue a more rural life to see if it took. I looked to Michigan.
I put my house on the market just as the US invaded Iraq. That's relevant because only a week or two after my house was listed, a young couple saw it and wanted it. But he was in the reserves and his unit was called up and they couldn't risk buying a home at that point. So I waited another 18 months until the right buyers came along. During which time I sold my interest in a building in Chicago and largely supported myself from the proceeds. I thoroughly enjoyed being unemployed, except for the uncertainty of it, and completed many lovely craft projects, expanded my garden, and hosted dinner parties.
Eventually I got the offer I'd waited for. Which was any offer, I wasn't in the position to be picky after waiting 18 months. So now the search for a new home began.
I knew southwest Michigan from my college years in Kalamazoo -- at least, I had driven I-94 back and forth many, many times. I began looking for rental listings, telephoning for information, and having conversations that went like this:
ME: I am interested in the house you're renting. Do you allow pets?
THEM: What kind of pets?
ME: Well, like dogs?
THEM: How big?
ME: Well, she's just a puppy, and he's just over 99 pounds.
THEM: Will she be the same size? Two hundred pounds of dogs?
ME: Uh, and three cats.
THEM: Five pets?
ME: Well, there are also five chickens... (Voice fades off as I know what's coming)
THEM: Honestly, I don't think this is the house for you. Thanks for calling.
My closing date was approaching and I was looking homelessness in the face. The buyers asked if they could keep the chickens -- that lessened the issue by 50%. Then I happened to speak to an old colleague who weekends in the area. Turned out she'd just purchased a house to use as a rental and was willing to rent to me for a year. She was even planning on fencing the yard! So in May, 2004 I moved to Sawyer, Michigan.
Within a couple of months I had a part-time job at an art gallery, where I made myself very useful and ended up working 3/4 to full time for nearly seven years. Then in the spring of 2005, deciding I was going to stay for a while, I bought my home and named it Busy Solitude Farm.
Voltaire wrote "The happiest of all lives is a busy solitude." There I was, alone in my world (except for the five pets). That was solitude, wasn't it? And I was basically happy, wasn't I?
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