When I was twenty-one, I married my high school sweetheart. Like him, I had been born and raised in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I had grown up in suburbia, felt comfortable with “city life,” and never thought about doing anything but what I knew. I assumed my husband would feel the same way about our life once he left the military.
At some point during the next twenty years of our marriage, however, my husband’s desires morphed before my eyes. He picked up a book on farming and permaculture at a local library and was hooked. He never looked back or wavered. He was focused.
He wanted to own a farm.
I knew nothing about farming other than what I’d learned during a few days on my great-aunt’s farm outside of Chicago when I was a young girl. I never did anything else remotely rural with my family. We weren’t campers. We weren’t hikers. We were city people who played sports and stayed in hotels and kept ourselves relatively clean.