Whenever we buy land somewhere, I want a small hobby farm. Nothing too big, but I do want a vegetable garden, some chickens, goats and maybe a couple of cows. But the animals won’t be for eating; as a vegetarian since 1989, I love animals too much to eat them.
But, since landing here at White Rabbit, it’s become clear to me that if I want farm animals, I’m not going to be able to hide from the cycle of life and death that comes with them, even if my animals aren’t there for meat.
I haven’t always been a wanna-be farmer. Growing up as a suburban L.A. mall girl, I didn’t have a clue about where food came from, and the only farm animals I ever saw up close were the ones at the L.A. County fair. But in 1998, when Jim and I moved to rural Humboldt County, something inside me clicked, and I found myself falling in love with the simple ways of country living, like growing a vegetable garden and hanging out with the neighbor’s chickens.
Now that I’m actually living on a farm, I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to be able to witness farm living firsthand, like paying a visit to Outlaw, the four-hour old newborn filly next door.
It’s a swampy night here in Vero, and we’ve spent the last few hours swatting away bugs while enjoying the last of the holiday season. This monumental year is coming to a close, and even after thousands of miles and too many towns to count, we are both nowhere closer to deciding where we want to live, or what we want to be when we grow up.
We have our favorite regions, but really, the only decision we’ve been able to make, is to decide not to decide. In essence, that is a decision of sorts, right?
When you go to a Farmer’s Market, have you ever thought about the amount of work it takes for a farmer to get there every week, so you can have the freshest farm fresh produce available? I never gave it much thought, until we started hawking White Rabbit’s wares at the Fort Pierce Farmer’s Market.
For three weeks, we’ve been getting up at 5:30 am every Saturday to sell a variety of organic produce, nuts and grains. The market is only four hours long, but it takes an entire day to set up, tear down, clean up and take stock back at the Farm. By the time we’re done, it’s usually around 3pm and we are exhausted.
When Jim and I told friends that we were staying on a farm with people we’d never met before, more than one person asked, “How do you know they’re not total psychos?” Well, my response to that is, “How do they know that we aren’t psychos?”
Last Saturday while waiting for the Space Shuttle to take off, a friendly camper introduced herself to me. Her name was Kim Cunningham, and she is a fulltiming mother and wife with three children who are traveling across America right now, in search of their next endeavor.
Kim (41), her husband Regis (47), daughter Jessica (15), son Regis III (9), and Seb (6), sold their principal home in Cody, Wyoming last May. Regis is a real estate investor who for the last 25 years has taken marginal homes, fixed them up, and turned them into money making opportunities. Kim was a Creative Memories consultant for 13 years, while working together with Regis to manage their properties. This year, they had planned to leave Cody, buy another fixer-upper in Pennsylvania and settle down for a while, but when in Pennsylvania, circumstances didn’t turn out as they’d hoped, so they decided to stay on the road and keep looking.
How does a family with three kids, four dogs and one cat do it?
Since June, we’ve been searching for the ideal place to live and start a business. We are talking to locals in towns across America, interviewing and taking notes, trying to get a feel for places that might come close to what we consider “perfect.”
But is all this work just a waste of energy? Are we searching for a utopia that doesn’t exist?
Tell us: What factors make up your ideal community?
As we tack on the miles, we keep seeking these answers.
This is Ken, my brother in law’s Father. Here he is recently in his front yard in Belgium, Wisconsin. Jim and I visited Ken and his wife Arleen, back in August.
We really loved that area of Wisconsin, and we want to go back to check it out as a possibility for permanent relocation, but definitely not anytime soon.
This is us, on the beach at Port Canaveral, Florida very early Sunday morning (K, not my best picture, but it was early!).
As we drove into St. Augustine, Florida we had a memorable introduction to the diversity, disparity and delicate fragile environment that makes up Florida.
We left the scrubby forests of the mid-state, and drove East to an area filled with sparkling blue water, lush, green oversized jungle plants, giant birds, and communities living in poverty right next to decadent housing developments that are closing in on all of this natural beauty. Northern coastal Florida is a land of contrasts.
“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” – St. Augustine”
St. Augustine was a lovely town filled with ancient ghosts, artifacts and tourists. It seems affordable compared to elsewhere in the state. But it still felt crowded, and its small town charm is in danger thanks to big box stores that surround the historic downtown area. I hope that it the kitschy charm and open coastal areas can last.
Due to some false LH2 ECO sensor readings, the STS-122 mission launch was scrubbed yesterday delaying Space Shuttle Atlantis from taking off until Saturday afternoon at the earliest.
We intend to stay one more day here in Jetty Park in hope that the countdown will continue as planned. If not, we will head on to our obligations at the farm in Vero Beach about an hour south. The view of takeoff won’t be nearly as spectacular there, but we’ve postponed our workamping stay long enough already.
In the meantime, here are some scenes from our first day in Florida …
Whenever we buy land somewhere, I want a small hobby farm. Nothing too big, but I do want a vegetable garden, some chickens, goats and maybe a couple of cows. But the animals won’t be for eating; as a vegetarian since 1989, I love animals too much to eat them.
hence the song in the video. Being the 
at the end.
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