HELLO COUNTRY LIFE
After decades of living and working in New York City, my husband and I began to notice that most everyone around us appeared to be younger, faster, and louder than we were. We would turn to each other in any number of the city’s crowded, noisy restaurants and ask, “Is there anyone in here older than we are?” And “Why is everyone screaming? I don’t remember us ever being this loud.”
It was 2011, and we were both well over fifty. Not only were we feeling like grumpy grandfathers, but both of us had also just gone through major career changes and were hustling for employment and new career identities. Sadly, we were finding a friend’s words of wisdom to hold true, “No one wants to hire your tired ass once you’re over fifty.” The writing was on our brownstone wall. What they said would happen one day was happening. We were aging out.
Since the work world wanted nothing to do with us—and, truth be told, we wanted nothing to do with it either—and since we couldn’t bear climbing the three flights of stairs in our house any longer, we decided to sell the house, retire and move on. But move on to where? We searched all across the country to answer that question. Florida was too humid and soon to be under water; San Francisco was too expensive and had sold its soul to the tech industry; Los Angeles required too much driving and sun block, and Asheville, North Carolina was certainly not the Paris of the South as was advertised at the time. Our search revealed that we really didn’t want to be far from lifelong friends or New York City culture, so we chose to relocate to the Hudson Valley, a rural area about two hours north of the city. After spending our entire adult lives in an intensely urban area, we were saying goodbye to city life and moving, “gulp”, to the country.
We weren’t about to move to the middle of the woods, far from any hint of civilization, however. No brambly and impenetrable forests for us. We decided we should live in a village, somewhere with neighbors and sidewalks and streetlights, and little chance of a surprise attack by a cantankerous bear or a pack of salivating coyotes. Wild animals do live in the area, however, so such an encounter is not impossible. But, as far as I know, no residents have been snatched by the local fauna—yet.
We chose the village of Rhinebeck. It looked like the set of Meet Me in St. Louis, with tree-lined streets dotted with Victorian homes and large front lawns. We could almost see Judy Garland braiding Margaret O’Brien’s hair on the porch next door. It is a charming, compact village, and happily, very walkable. We were used to walking in the city and wanted to live somewhere where we could walk into town, be it for a coffee, a glass of wine, or a prescription of Xanax. And no small part of our reason for moving to Rhinebeck was the art house movie theater in town. We could stay current on new films and not suffer the debilitating symptoms of cultural withdrawal. Most importantly, there was a train station ten minutes away with multiple daily trains that could whisk us back to the city whenever we felt in need of old friends, great art or chocolate babka.
We thought it best to rent first to make sure we could adjust to the rigors of a rustic life. Our choices were limited: either a pricey, expansive house with five bedrooms, or a ramshackle hovel that looked as if it were inhabited by evil spirits from the nether world. The hovel’s floors slanted in every which direction, and I am almost certain tree roots were sneaking and snaking into each room. The dark forces were claiming it for their own and most likely, one day, they would pull it down into the earth never to be seen again. It also had an empty swimming pool, littered with muck and leaves and something resembling skeletal remains, undoubtedly a site for satanic rituals.
Much more appealing was the recently renovated 4500 square foot colonial house. It rambled with rooms and had a huge front porch that in itself was bigger than most one-bedroom apartments in the city. It was a preposterous notion for two people to live in such a gargantuan house with a rent that was well over our budget, but our choices were limited. After a lot of hemming and hawing, we convinced ourselves that the rent really wasn’t any higher than the cost to rent a decent sized apartment in the city; so we shrugged our shoulders and signed the lease. Only later did we discover how much it costs to heat a huge house with forty-one windows dating back to the turn of the twentieth century.
Once we moved in, and the hot water was finally turned on, and we rid the house of an infestation of flies, we enjoyed living in such a cavernous house, especially after years of cramped city life. We had adjusted to storing our worldly belongings in a small closet, beneath the bed, and under the sink. Now we had more room than we knew what to do with, and not enough furniture to fill it. One room we furnished solely with a rug and a chest of drawers. It became “the Yoga Room.”
Our gracious rental home evoked an era and social stratum we had only ever experienced in movies and novels. Built when Rhinebeck was a popular second residence destination for New York City dwellers during the Gilded Age, our home had a carriage house, a butler’s pantry, a back staircase for servants, a library, and a service buzzer on the floor under the dining table. We buzzed it several times, but no one ever came to pour our wine or to clear our plates. Most disappointing.
We discovered that we lived in what was referred to as the “Frost House,” not because it was freezing inside in the winter, which it was, but because the first tenants and builders of the house were the Frost family. Their name conjures an image of stoic New Englanders standing in snow drifts, coatless and humorless, silently conveying their ancestral philosophy that life is cold and hard, so toughen up and get used to it. The Frost children, one brother and one sister, lived in the house their entire lives, neither ever marrying. Once they passed on, the house was bought and renovated, and put on the market right at the beginning of the great recession in 2008. It couldn’t be sold so it was offered as a rental, and hence we became, according to neighbors, “the gay couple in the Frost House.” It was our hope that our presence in the village would be seen ultimately as a good omen. Afterall, when the gays move into the neighborhood, everything goes up—curtains, decorative lighting, and home prices.
We were rather anxious about living somewhere that didn’t exactly have a gay vibe and our closest friends were a 40-minute drive away. But we had heard that the new priest at the Episcopal church was gay and thought that was an encouraging sign of modernization and inclusivity. And across the river in Kingston, there was an LGBT center, so there were some friendly forces at work. But it was obvious that there were not a lot of our kind wandering about the village. We worried. Maybe we would be hounded out of town or find ourselves not invited to any outdoor country dinner parties lit by an excessive number of carefully-placed votive candles. The risks were considerable.
To our pleasant surprise—and deep suspicion—everyone we met was exceptionally kind and friendly. Our new neighbors came by with baked goods and welcoming words. The workers we hired to help set up the house were remarkably congenial and respectful, and they were eager to work and appreciative of the opportunity to earn some money. In Brooklyn, I had spent hours on the phone tracking down workers and contractors and begging them to come over and finish their work, even offering to pay them more if they would just show up. My pleas were usually met with bored indifference. We were just one of a multitude offering bribes that day.
Our postal delivery person in Rhinebeck was like a character out of Dick and Jane, a wholesome children’s book popular in the 1950s. He came every day at the same time, stopped to say hello, picked up any outgoing mail we had, smiled, and bid us a good day as he left. All that was missing was the dog, Spot, nipping at his heels. In Brooklyn, we never got to know our mail carriers because they changed constantly. When we would ask our current carrier whatever happened to the previous one, she would mutter something about disability, and then she too would disappear within a matter of weeks. And whenever we tried to have our mail forwarded to us when we were out of town, it would, most likely, never arrive and never be seen again. Where did our mail and those mail carriers abscond to? Pensacola? Staten Island?
Now that we had a new address, our drivers’ licenses had to be updated. We went to the DMV in the nearby town of Millbrook, which looked more like your old aunt’s house in the Cotswolds than a government agency building. There were curtains on the windows, brass chandeliers, and kind and patient bureau employees. We were surprised they didn’t offer us tea and cookies. Getting a driver’s license renewed in the city felt like lining up to receive a prison uniform before being escorted to a cell. And those mug shots they took of us there didn’t help matters: grim expression, hair every which way, eyes half closed. All for the privilege of sitting in crosstown traffic.
Although this was small town living rather than down-on-the-farm living, we still went through a process of de-urbanization. No more armies of people out our front window every morning dressed in black and gray and marching to the subway. No more double-parked cars or angry drivers honking their horns and shouting words from a mouth no mother would kiss. Now we looked out on picturesque homes and occasional passersby, some of them stopping to peer into our house and hopefully catch a glimpse of their new gay neighbors. And our concerns about cockroaches and rats turned to ticks and deer.
The dreaded deer tick, a tiny creature but a gigantic threat. It famously transmits Lyme disease, a debilitating disease, especially if not treated quickly. We discovered to our chagrin that Dutchess County, where Rhinebeck is located, is one of the national epicenters for Lyme disease. Oh lucky us. One local acquaintance told me, “If you live in Dutchess County, you may as well accept the fact you are going to get Lyme disease.” Accept the fact? I had seen someone at an event in a nearby community who could barely walk or speak, all due to Lyme disease. I was not going to accept that fact.
Research and acquisition of tick repellants began. We sprayed ourselves, sprayed the yard, sprayed our guests, and bought knee high boots for yard work. We bought tick removers, magnifying glasses, and rodent and deer repellent to keep their primary hosts at bay. We had moved to the country to be closer to nature, but now could only experience it through a fog of repellants and protective clothing.
And they don’t call them deer ticks for nothing. The graceful, innocent deer that everyone adores are riddled with those blood sucking bugs, which they unwittingly bring into your very own backyard and possibly onto your very own body. And while the charming deer are dropping off ticks throughout your yard, they will also eat up your cherished garden plants like college students at a free buffet. While your back is momentarily turned, they can decimate an entire patch of your favorite perennials. And those lovely deer are also the same sweet creatures that have a propensity for throwing themselves into the path of oncoming automobiles. Why after hundreds of years of living with humans, do they still not know what a road or car is? Cats, dogs, birds, and other woodland animals know enough to run or wait before crossing when a car is rumbling down the road, but deer will stand in the road, staring straight at your car, and expect it to fly over them or pass right through them. Or they will just jaunt across the road—not looking to the right or the left—and mindlessly slam into your vehicle, causing significant damage to both parties. We bought deer whistles, cheap little plastic thingamabobs that are mounted on the front of the car and supposedly alert and scare off nearby deer. We doubt they work, but we haven’t hit a deer yet, so we aren’t taking any chances. Deer, the epitome of nature’s elegance and beauty, yet nothing short of a holy terror.
A brand-new world it was. Aside from merciless ticks, suicidal deer and strangely nice people, we were now living in a car culture. And after having lived in New York City for so many years, we had lost our driving chops. In the city, we relied upon public transportation, but in the country, it was drive or stay home. We had to get behind the wheel and get up to speed. I, in particular, was no longer sure of the many rules of the road. “They are not rules, they are laws!” Joe would adamantly remind me.
We also were now living in a quieter world, or so we thought. One day while sitting on our porch talking to a friend on the phone, I had to stop and say, “Hold on a sec. I’m sorry but I can’t hear you. I have to go inside.”
The noise that morning in the village was exceptionally loud and annoying. How could that be? Weren’t we supposed to hear only birds chirping and grass growing? It turns out that power mowers and leaf blowers give jackhammers and car alarms a run for their money, especially leaf blowers with their incessant roaring. They are definitely a blight upon modern civilization, but I am certainly not about to use a rake to gather up acres and acres of leaves. Until they invent a silent blower, I, regrettably, am going to be out there disrupting the peace and power-blowing my little heart out. You should see me with my hat and ear protectors on, blower slung over my back and a long tube jutting out in front of me. I look like Sigourney Weaver in Alien as she is about to obliterate that hideous monster.
Not only did we have to adapt to a new locale and all its idiosyncrasies, we needed to figure out what to do with all of our time now that we were retired. We had been yearning for free time and to be finally rid of office politics, but after we visited all the historic homes in the area, and dined at most every local restaurant, we found ourselves feeling aimless and disengaged. No longer defined by our jobs in advertising and media or by our personal histories among old friends, we felt a sense of loss and a lack of identity. We were now just a couple of retired gays on Chestnut Street dismayed about the lack of good takeout in the area.
Clearly, we had to build new lives for ourselves; so we hunkered down and dug in. I started attending a Buddhist center nearby and took up photography. Joe became involved in the local Episcopal church and dedicated himself to the culinary arts. We made new local friends, had our old friends up as often as possible, and hung out most mornings at the local coffee shop to gab with other retirees about politics, real estate, and whether or not Rhinebeck was developing too fast and would soon lose its small-town appeal. A topic of the utmost urgency.
As the months went by, we began to feel more comfortable in our new surroundings and hopeful about the future, so decided to stick around and buy a house, one more suited to the space needs of two people and not two people with an imaginary staff. However, we had come to realize that we, surprisingly, no longer wanted to live in the village. We didn’t see the point of moving to the country if we couldn’t immerse ourselves in the natural beauty of the Hudson Valley? Why look out your window and see your neighbors’ cars or garden parties, when you could sit on a screen porch surrounded by woodlands and watch wild turkeys pass by in all their prehistoric wonder?
Our hunt for the perfect house in the woods was on, but before we committed to a mortgage, we decided to formally commit to each other. Marriage had finally become legal for same sex couples, and since we felt strongly that we deserved the same rights and privileges accorded to straight married couples, we decided to take advantage of our newfound political right and legalize our union.
The custom and content of marriage actually felt fairly irrelevant to us. We had been denied this right most of our adulthood so had never entertained the notion that it had any meaning for gay couples, especially since most religions considered our relationship a sin. After thirty years together, it didn’t seem necessary to make vows about fidelity and devotion; we knew we were on each other’s side. Yet, we didn’t want our relationship deemed any less worthy of state and church recognition than any other, so we put aside our ambivalence and had—a surprise wedding!
One night while we were having some friends over for dinner, the local gay Episcopal priest, aka Father Fabulous, popped in and married us between hors d’oeuvres and the first course. Our guests were taken aback to find themselves suddenly in the middle of a wedding.
“Are you serious?” “But I don’t have a present,” and “How fabulous!” were just a few of the surprised reactions. Once everyone realized this was not a joke or a reality TV show, they settled in for the ceremony with smiles on their faces. The whole ritual felt very awkward for us at first, as we mimicked what we considered a heteronormative convention, but as the priest spoke his words and we spoke ours, the ambivalence fell away and we found ourselves immersed in a festive celebration of love. And what isn’t good about that, especially when it includes copious amounts of grilled shrimp followed by a delicious wedding cake?
All we needed now was a home to begin our newly wedded life together. After months of searching, we had just about lost hope in finding the perfect place, when it appeared one day like real estate magic. Our agent drove us over, and there it was—a neglected 1980s contemporary house that needed a complete makeover inside and out. Ideally secluded in the woods, yet within walking distance to the village, it had our three other “must haves”: an attached garage, a screened-in porch, and a master bedroom on the first floor for when our knees eventually gave out.
After the requisite haggling, we bought the place, and the usual horror of renovation began. It came to a point where I didn’t think I could pick out one more grout color or one more pull style for cabinets lest I suddenly wander off into the woods never to be seen again. But the renovation did come to an end. Finally, we were able to move into our vastly improved house nestled among the oak trees and countless chirpy chipmunks.
Who’d a thunk? We were about as citified as two people could be, but here we were, homemakers and landowners in a place where owls perched in our trees and fox cubs pranced in our yard. It seems we humans can adjust to almost anything. I once miraculously adjusted to a subway running beneath one of our apartments in Brooklyn, so learning to live with all the peculiarities of country life was just a matter of a little time and patience, and finally getting those yellow tinted lenses for nighttime driving.
We continued to feel the pull of the city, longing for its energy, style, diversity, and anything you could want at any time of the day and night, often fretting about whether we had made the right choice, leaving Brooklyn and almost everyone we knew behind. But then we would wander out onto our screened-in porch at the end of a day, settle into a comfy chair, and wait for an owl to fly by.