Just a hobby.

We’d live on a small farm—-a “hobby farm,” as my parents called it since it wasn’t my dad’s “real” job—with 12 acres, an actual barn and silo. Among it all stood a somewhat decrepit house built 100 years or so prior. My parents’ friends and family couldn’t believe they were gonna do it, until we actually moved in.

It was the ’70s and, my parents used to say, this is what people were doing.

Moving to farms.

Well, none of my friends were doing it, but I accepted (and later resented) this shaky fact.

Recently my parents told me, “It was the ’70s and everyone was going a little crazy.”

They wanted a more wholesome environment for us kids.

And my mom dreamed of owning horses.

Along with my older brother, Dave, and younger brother, Matt (who wasn’t yet in Kindergarten and didn’t realize what he’d be missing from suburban life), I would now be living the country life. (Insert Green Acres music here.)

I never felt like I fit into this place.

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