A retirement homestead in Kansas.

Vera Dean

Hoisington, Kansas 

"The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." How many times have I heard that phrase in my lifetime? Never really gave it much thought -- it was just one of those things that people say. Looking back, though, I suppose there really is some substance to it. I can remember years of thinking about how much I'd like to move out of the city, get some land, be "out in the country." I remember when we bought our house in the suburbs. We vowed we would only stay there for two years and then, before we had kids, we were going to move to the country. Funny how the years seem to get by when you're not looking. Thirty-five years later we were still living in that same little house. The kids were grown and gone and we never did make it to the country. It was a good life, though. The house held years and years of happy memories, and the warmth of a home that had heard the laughter of children and seen the love of a family. How does the song go? "Love grows best in little houses." Well, I don't know about that, but there was plenty of love in that little house.

Still, hidden inside me somewhere was that yearning for the country. As our city grew and grew, sprawling across the front range of the Rockies like some inland Los Angeles, the yearning began to surface. The crowds, the pollution, the unending traffic snarls began to be almost more than I could stand. My husband and I had lived there all of our lives, and to watch what was happening to that beloved place was so painful. I suppose, in reality, compared with some other big cities, ours was still not such a bad place to be, but as the headlines began to reflect more and more crime and violence, as the newscasts spoke of drive-by shootings and warned us to lock our doors and stay out of certain neighborhoods after dark, I once again began to wish for a gentler, quieter place to be. A dream, to be sure, because there was really no way we could afford to buy a place with land anywhere and still retire. Nevertheless, the idea wouldn't go away. I spent endless hours looking at the real estate listings, searching for something decent that would be within our price range. Often, when I had time off from work, I would drive around, looking at places for sale. It wasn't long before we realized that even though we had a home to sell, we still wouldn't have the money to buy a new place without going deeply into debt. One of our main objectives in doing this was to be able to retire and we sure couldn't do that if we were making payments on a new home. The bottom line was that real estate anywhere within about 100 miles of Denver had gone through the roof! We looked at some places that consisted of a small house on about one to two acres, no outbuildings, no nothing. And all this could be ours for a mere $150,000 to $200,000! It didn't take a rocket scientist to understand that we couldn't stay in that area, so it was back to the drawing board. What to do now? Well, maybe we needed to extend our search a little. What about small towns further away -- perhaps a small rural community? Nope. That didn't work either. Even there, prices were still approaching $100,000 or more. This was truly mind-boggling to a couple of people who had paid $10,000 for the only home they had ever lived in. And so it went. We talked and talked -- what did we want to do? Stay where we were? And do what for the next 20 years or so? Go into debt? No! Leave Colorado? We had never really thought about that. Colorado was our home and we liked it there, we just didn't enjoy sharing what little space we had with approximately 3.2 million other people. Not that we were stingy, you understand, we just really needed some stretching room. At any rate, after months and months of this, we were pretty burned out and tired of the on again/off again turmoil. Tired of getting our hopes up and going to look at places that turned out to be run-down or over-priced. And so, tired and discouraged, we told ourselves to give up on the idea. Stop fussing and just be thankful for what you have. And just when we had about given the whole idea up -- who says miracles don't happen?!

A letter came one morning from our oldest son, who had lived in Kansas for about 12 years. "Dear Mom and Dad," it said. "We've found a place for you to retire. Have you ever thought about living in Kansas? Seriously, though, I think you really should come look at this place." Well, we read it, and smiled, and said no, we hadn't really ever thought about living in Kansas, and let it go at that. A week or so later, our son called and said, "Get out here and look at this place. Seriously!" We looked at each other and smiled again and said, "Well,okay, we'll go look, but no, we've never really thought about living in Kansas." The next weekend we headed for Kansas (you know, that place we never really thought about living in) and went to have a look at the place (all the while reminding ourselves that we had no intention of ever living in Kansas!). Sometimes I think God must get a huge belly-laugh out of us telling Him what our plans and intentions are!

Oh, my! This wasn't just a "place in the country." This was beyond my dreams! It was lovely! It was affordable! It was available! It was ours! Just like that, so fast it left us both spinning! And scared silly! As we drove home after making the offer on the place and filling out the loan papers, we looked at each other as if to say, "My God! What have we done?!" This wasn't just a matter of moving from one house to another. In order to do this thing, we would have to leave the state we had lived our whole lives in -- nearly sixty years! We would be leaving the house and neighborhood where we had lived since the day we were married. We would be walking away from jobs that provided us with a very substantial amount of money each year, cutting our income to one-fourth of what we were used to. "We're out of our minds -- this is totally insane!" And yet, as we waited to see if our offer would be accepted, the need to do this, to retire from the rat-race and somehow find a quieter lifestyle grew in us. Scared? You bet! We alternated between days of hoping our offer would be refused and agonizing over the fear that it would. It was like living in limbo -- not knowing which way to jump. Finally, the word came. The place was ours! "Oh, Lord, what have we done? Is this the right thing? Are we completely crazy? Let's go look at the place again." And so we did. And yes, we were crazy, and yes, we did want it, and yes, we would do this! And so we did.

As the day of the move drew closer, I alternated between excitement and despair. I had dreamed for years of doing this and yet -- to leave the only home we had ever known, to leave behind the memories of a lifetime, the security of a place so familiar that I could travel about with my eyes closed and not get lost. To leave behind friends and family -- at times it was terrifying! When we came to be at the farm, I was sure this was what we must do -- at those times I wanted it so bad I could taste it. But then, alone at night, at home in my little house, I cried at the loss I felt. I felt as though I was deserting it -- the place that had sheltered and nutured our family all those years. I walked through the rooms, crying and grieving as though I were losing a person in my life, remembering days past and children's voices and special moments that would never come again. I worried over what effect leaving that house would have on my boys. It had been so loved, so much of a sanctuary for them through the years. I remembered how displaced I had felt when my parents moved shortly after I went away to college. I felt as though I had no home to go home to. I talked to them about it and they assured me that it wouldn't be a problem for them -- that they wanted us to do whatever was best for us, and yet I knew by their voices that it was going to be difficult for them. And just when I began to have serious doubts about the wisdom of the decision, we would come to the farm for a weekend and I would again feel the peace and quiet of the country and see the beauty of the place and think, "This is where we belong."

It was sort of like a snowball going downhill. It was happening in spite of my ambivalence. On any given day I fluctuated between the excitement of starting a new life on this lovely farm and grief at what I was leaving behind. And, yet, it just moved on and on toward the actual day of the move. And then it was there -- the moving van in front of the house, an army of friends and neighbors helping us load everything and coming to say goodby. It was, without doubt, one of the most painful days of my life. There were tears and hugs and a last trip through my empty house, and then we were gone. I felt as though my heart had been ripped out -- it was probably one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life. Thank God for dear friends who made the trip with us and worked hard for 400 miles to cheer me up and ease the pain (and blow my nose and wipe my eyes!). In retrospect, it may not have been such a good thing-i think I needed to grieve, to cry, to express my fears that we might just be making a big mistake, but I will be forever thankful for their loving support as well as their sick jokes and Kleenex).

And so, we arrived. God bless my son and daughter-in-law; they had hung a big sign in the kitchen. Dorothy and Toto and the ruby slippers. "Welcome Home! There's no place like home," it said. Beneath it stood a large basket full of goodies. They'll probably never really know how much I needed that just then. I felt some of the hurt begin to ooze out, my heart began to thaw just a little. Our friends stayed for two days, helping us get settled and moved in. On the day they left, as we stood in the driveway and waved goodby, once again I felt as though my heart would break. It didn't help to tell myself that we would make new friends here, that in time we could make a new life in this place. These were the people we had a history with -- this was our support system, driving away and leaving us standing in a new world, a strange place -- Oz.

As the days passed and we began to immerse ourselves in turning the farm into our home, the ache started to ease. I began to enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face as I worked in the farmyard, to delight in the surprise appearance of a clump of flowers where I hadn't known there was one, to look forward with anticipation to the work and improvements we discussed each evening. The days were full of hard work. We would often drag ourselves in at dusk, dirty and exhausted but with a real sense of accomplishment for a day's work well done. We began to enjoy the fact that we could now come and go as we pleased. We could sleep as late as we wanted, stay up as late as we wanted. We could go visit our kids with no time restraints. Some days, when we were tired of working non-stop on the farm, we just got in the car and went off on an "adventure," driving without really knowing where we were going and coming home when we were ready. As our efforts began to show on the farm, we felt pride and pleasure in the results of our hard work. It started to feel more like our place and not someone elses'. The boys and their families visited and fell in love with it. They assured us that we had done the right thing, moving here. It helps to know they feel that way.

We joined the church and began to get acquainted with our neighbors and others. Everyone has been so nice and friendly. I try to get involved -- I need to get to know these people. On occasion we do things together, play cards or games, go caroling at Christmas, go to potlucks at the church. It's good to feel as though we are making new friends. It isn't the same yet. We still have no history with these folks. They have all known each other since the beginning of time. We're newcomers and probably will be forever. I guess it's unrealistic to think that new friends can replace old friends. It's sort of like apples and oranges. I think the trick is to work at having both. Work hard at maintaining old friendships, however far away they may be, but also work at making new ones. Find pleasure and strength in both. Give up grieving for what was lost and find joy in what was found.

As the days and months passed, my heart seemed to be more and more centered in this new place. It was best when I could be outdoors. I'm not one to stay cooped up inside -- i get cabin fever very easily. We worked hard and found delight in the improvements we were making. My neighbor lady was right, though. Living on a farm can be lonely. We have each other, and surprisingly enough, that hasn't been the problem everyone said it would be. The wedding vows never mention retirement, you know -- togetherness! I honestly don't think it has bothered either of us. We've become really good friends, and we work well together. The farm is big enough that we can still give each other some space when needed. It's been far better than I had hoped. I still find myself needing the companionship of another woman, though. I don't really know if it bothers my husband as much -- not having the close neighbor men or co-workers to talk to (cars and guns and stuff like that), to just shoot the bull with from time to time. It doesn't seem to.

And, so back to our life here on the farm and in Kansas. Do we like it? Yes! Is it different? Yes! It has been an adjustment, mostly because I think we made too many changes all at one time, we did too much changing all at once. Retirement alone is a huge adjustment. A huge change in your life. It can be very scary to think that you're not going to have that great big paycheck coming in every week. Strangely enough, I honestly don't think that part of it has bothered me at all. Maybe because I'm the one who ran the numbers. I'm the one who figured it all out to see if we could afford to do it. I know it bothered my husband. I can understand why. The idea of going from a very large income to far less than half would scare anyone in their right mind, which probably says something about my mind (or lack thereof). I think it's admirable that he trusted me enough to do it when I told him we could. But even aside from the money, when you decide to retire there are other things that can be frightening. What in the heck will you do with yourself for the next 20 years or so? You think about boredom -- you envision yourself rotting away in a rocking chair somewhere. In that, we have been blessed. This farm has plenty to keep us busy for a good long time. We will be able to do some limited traveling. God knows we are far from rich, but we can manage it. I don't suppose you could call us true homesteaders, if that means total self-sufficiency -- forget the grocery store, the piped-in electricity, the store-bought soap and such. To some we may still seem to be just city folk living in the country. To me, I'm where I've always wanted to be -- beyond the sidewalks. I have my dogs and my cats and my ducks. I can sit outside and watch a beautiful Kansas sunset and not feel as though I should be doing something. I can play with the dogs and chase the cats and throw corn out for my ducks and grin like a fool as I watch them come waddling up from the creek to eat it. I can work 'til I drop and know that I'm working for me, and that if I don't want to work tomorrow, there's always the next day. And, at our age, that's what life should be all about, I think. So many times I read letters from folks asking questions like how, or when, or where to make the move. It's hard to say. The same answer isn't right for everyone. They still have to eat and be able to stay in out of the rain. Life is nothing if not reality. But when you can, do it! Don't let fear make you put it off until tomorrow if it is at all possible to do it today. Tomorrow may not come!