When I was a child I lived all over the United States. I say I have lived from Maine to Mexico and everything in between. The first place I ever had roots was with my Grandparents in the wild woods of Pennsylvania.


Sometimes in a mixture of teenage angst and my Grandparents natural disposition there would be disturbances in the house that would cause me to run to the woods and disappear. I spent a lot of time eating berries for lunch and drinking spring water. I ate my first boiled crawfish in those woods. They were gross. But I caught them and I cooked them and then I left them for the raccoons.


I would build dams and bridges out of fallen trees and logs. I would sit in the old graveyard on that huge fallen tree and read and write for hours. It was a beautiful, mystical fabulous place. I miss it. I miss being able to walk out my backdoor and disappear into a contained wilderness. To not see or talk to another person all day if you choose not too.


Here, in my little suburb, in a muggy state with red dirt, I can never escape. There is no where to go. Even the “wilderness” has been turned into campsites and parking lots and walking paths. The sound of everyone closes in sometimes and all I wish for is 50 acres, tall trees, and a valley to hide in.


I remember taking blankets with me and taking naps in the forest. Climbing trees and reading in my Grandfathers tree stand. Eating a sandwich and throwing the rest to the forest floor as my contribution to the place that loved me so.


Here, I barely go outside.


I want a garden. I want to keep bees. I want my dogs to be able to run and not hit a fence.

I want a goat. And chickens.

I want to be a self sustainable hippie.

Not a spinster living in a low income suburb.


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