I stumbled upon a story in the Wall Street Journal called “From Versace to Chainsaws” that caught my eye. In it, the reporter describes her transformation from typical Manhattan editor city rat to upstate country mouse. She describes how, where once she used to edit stories about fashion, she now spends her Saturdays blowing leaves and chain-sawing her way around her 2-acre country abode located 50 miles outside of Manhattan.
Her experience reminded me of, well, me. Except that she has a nifty name for such a transformation.
She calls people like us “ruralpolitans,” or “how the recession is inspiring more young families and singles to head back to the country.” For some, “it’s an investment, a hedge against unpredictable 401Ks and job prospects. For others it’s about a lifestyle change — a chance to start gardens and raise animals and show their kids where food comes from. But one theme coursed throughout: a desire for independence and self-sufficiency.”
The story stuck in my craw for two reasons. Number one, 50 miles outside of Manhattan isn’t exactly “country.” It’s more like an exurb of Westchester County, inhabited by Upper West Siders with country houses. It’s rural like a Martha Stewart catalog. And number two, 2-acres isn’t exactly “life on the farm.” It’s a yard. That happens to have a couple of scraggly trees on it. Lets not get carried away here.
But hold the phone: Gfriend uses a leaf blower on two acres!! That’s like using a snow blower on a snow-covered chair.
To me, a true ruralpolitan is one who lives at least an hour away from the nearest dinky-sized city and 3-4 hours away from a major metropolis (ahem, like me). It’s someone whose neighbors drive into her front yard, foregoing the driveway, to say hi. It’s where you find a mystery jug — yes, a jug — containing pickled eggs on your doorstep and you’re still not sure who they came from, and where people say things like “bathing in the crik” and “he dun roasted that squirrel.” And people don’t use leaf-blowers — they rake — because the Walmart blower they bought last week already dun broke.
It’s where former Cosmo editors dig a 250-foot trench with my hot, calloused hands. Who’s a real ruralpolitan now, hmmm?

The Ruralista hard at work






