One of the reasons I thought I could handle leaving the city to move out here to the cornfield was because I have harboured a Little House on the Prairie fetish ever since Carrie fell down the well. I’m a pioneer at heart, I would say to myself, while ordering a Grande Americano from Starbucks and wondering if I got any actual mud on my Hunters. (Quel damage!) Then one summer I canned peaches, fancied myself a total pioneer rockstar, and knew I could leave the city for greener pastures.
Of course, the realities of rural-ish life are quite different than my fantasies. For one thing, the closest Starbucks is 100km away (I KNOW). For another thing, nobody will let me drive their tractor, and Jack the brindle bulldog went out to catch possums one night, and hasn’t been heard from since. Still, the pioneer dream remains alive and well. In fact, I am sipping tea and patching a hole in a quilt right now. No I’m not.
Ways in which I am similar to an Ingalls:
Ways in which I remain different from an Ingalls: