“The the street was quiet again. Country quiet.
That's partly what took city natives like the Whitlams by surprise, Falk thought: the quiet. He could understand them seeking out the idyllic country lifestyle, a lot of people did. The idea had an enticing, wholesome glow when it was weighed out from the back of a traffic jam, or while crammed into a gardenless apartment. They all had the same visions of breathing fresh clean air and knowing their neighbors. The kids would eat home-grown veggies and learn the value of an honest day's work.
On arrival, as the empty moving truck disappeared form sight, they looked around and were always taken aback by the crushing vastness of the open land. The space was the thing that hit them first. There was so much of it. There was enough to drown in. To look out and see not another soul between you and the horizon could be a strange and disturbing sight.
Soon, they discovered that the veggies didn't grow as willingly as they had in the city window box. That every single green shoot had to be coaxed and prized from the reluctant soil, and the neighbors were too busy doing the same on an industrial scale to muster much cheer in their greetings. There was no daily bumper-to-bumper commute, but there was also nowhere much to drive to.
Falk didn't blame the Whitlams, he'd seen it many times before when he was a kid. The arrivals looked around at the barrenness and the scale and the sheer bloody hardness of the land, and before long their faces all said exactly the same thing. "I didn't know it was like this."
He turned away, remembering how the rawness of local life had seeped into the kids' paintings at the school. Sad faces and brown landscapes.”
― The Dry
Rural life in literature
“What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didn't talk gardening or dogs - those standbys of rural conversation.”
― Taken at the Flood
This reminds me of our daughter and her husband who both grew up in the rural community and thought the city life would be MUCH better. They couldn't wait to get out of here. They lived in a suburb of Indianapolis. Then they lived in a suburb of Columbus, OH. Then a suburb of Denver, CO. Back to Indiana to a city center near Indianapolis again. Now they are back in the rural community and can't figure out why they ever left. They don't regret their adventures, but they never found home to be so much a home as the rural community where you can see the stars and hear the crickets at night.
[quote="Angie K"]
This reminds me of our daughter and her husband who both grew up in the rural community and thought the city life would be MUCH better. They couldn't wait to get out of here. They lived in a suburb of Indianapolis. Then they lived in a suburb of Columbus, OH. Then a suburb of Denver, CO. Back to Indiana to a city center near Indianapolis again. Now they are back in the rural community and can't figure out why they ever left. They don't regret their adventures, but they never found home to be so much a home as the rural community where you can see the stars and hear the crickets at night.
[/quote]
I wonder about my own journey - I NEVER thought that I'd end up, back on this farm. Perhaps some of us became more attached to HOME when we were young? Perhaps some of us are hard-wired for the mysteries of rural life? I really do wonder.
I do know that it is easier to be here, on the farm, and NOT TO HAVE TO WORK the farm. 
While not in literature, I found this YouTube video heart warming this morning... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVZLbtU-rVE
Decluttering rural life...
Minimalism - A new Journey Extreme Declutter of my small Village room : A rural school teacher's mini room makeover - Slow living rural minimalism - cottagecore -journey to minimalism - massive declutter - simple living on a farm- room makeover on a budget - extreme minimalism A School Teacher's Mini Room Makeover : Massive Declutter - Rural Minimalism | Slow Living #12
Today, I ordered "Uprooted" by Grace Olmstead.
In the tradition of Wendell Berry, a young writer wrestles with what we owe the places we’ve left behind.
In the tiny farm town of Emmett, Idaho, there are two kinds of people: those who leave and those who stay. Those who leave go in search of greener pastures, better jobs, and college. Those who stay are left to contend with thinning communities, punishing government farm policy, and environmental decay.
Grace Olmstead, now a journalist in Washington, DC, is one who left, and in Uprooted, she examines the heartbreaking consequences of uprooting—for Emmett, and for the greater heartland America. Part memoir, part journalistic investigation, Uprooted wrestles with the questions of what we owe the places we come from and what we are willing to sacrifice for profit and progress.
As part of her own quest to decide whether or not to return to her roots, Olmstead revisits the stories of those who, like her great-grandparents and grandparents, made Emmett a strong community and her childhood idyllic. She looks at the stark realities of farming life today, identifying the government policies and big agriculture practices that make it almost impossible for such towns to survive. And she explores the ranks of Emmett’s newcomers and what growth means for the area’s farming tradition.
Avoiding both sentimental devotion to the past and blind faith in progress, Olmstead uncovers ways modern life attacks all of our roots, both metaphorical and literal. She brings readers face to face with the damage and brain drain left in the wake of our pursuit of self-improvement, economic opportunity, and so-called growth. Ultimately, she comes to an uneasy conclusion for herself: one can cultivate habits and practices that promote rootedness wherever one may be, but: some things, once lost, cannot be recovered.
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From Orion Magazine this month.
Barbara Kingsolver writes...
The Urbicene
Urban life has undeniable benefits. But what happens when we lose our connection to the natural world?