City - Farm Trauma (9/8/2007)

Is it possible to get Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from shopping for farms? If the dreams I’ve been having lately are any indication, then I think it is. More interesting, there's a weird correlation between city and farm mindsets that make these dreams particularly odd.

For instance I recently read a book about chickens.

Because I know so little about chickens I was fascinated by all the facts of chickendom this book revealed. There are so many types of chickens. Some adorable, some fancy, some weird and some are downright irresistable. And they all looked like they'd had their pictures taken after spending hours at the local feather salon. After carefully studying the pictures of chickens and tucking thoughts about egg-laying, arrested development, and the importance of knowing the color of a chicken's earlobes into my overloaded brain, I fell asleep and dreamed (viola') about chickens.

While chickens are not known to inspire traumatic thoughts, fear and distress pecked their way into my dream anyway. The dream went something like this:

Joe and I were settled on our perfect-peace-at-last farm, but in my dream he was out running errands when the worst happened. Strangers snuck onto our farm intent on making off with my beautiful, true-to-breed, show-worthy chickens (these were like the Prada of chickens). I fought the chicken thieves off (scences played out in black and white - an artistic touch, I think, to show the drama of the moment), but was completely unsuccessful. I felt totally traumatized. Struggling to wakefulness, groggy-eyed and frantic, I could hear those chicken’s desperate squawks as they were carried away. Squawks that later proved to be coming from the crows in my backyard (how could I have mistaken crows for chickens – my unfamiliarity with chickenese, I guess). The image of my perfect chicken-condo empty of the carefully selected, fashion-conscience hens I'd purchased was terrible. Those nasty chicken thieves even stole the eggs from their nests.

Not having learned from that experience, however, I continued to read farm-related material at night. My next book was about cows. It seemed safe. Cows are not a subject that keep people awake at night. In fact, counting farm mammals is often used to help people fall asleep.


In this dream there was a long line of highly desirable heifers for sale (they had the sweetest faces and such curious brown eyes) and I wanted one or two in the worst way. But because the man who owned them was giving away a cow gift basket (full of goodies in the shape of cows) with every purchase, I had to wait in a long line of women who also wanted to buy cows and secure a gift basket. This of course, filled me with a deep fear that there wouldn’t be enough cows for me to buy even one and/or there would not be enough gift baskets left for me if I did. Of course, I woke up before I got to the front of the line. I didn’t get to actually buy a cow nor did I even get a good look at the goodies in the gift baskets.

What makes a normally sane woman dream like this? My mind is mixing city/mall-fears and city/danger fears into farm/animal scenarios. I think I might be suffering from an all new form of PTSD. Some form that might be called, well . . . maybe, PTFS for Post Traumatic Farm Searching.

I’ve been scouring the MLS online again looking for the ‘perfect’ farm, only to be disappointed over how few farms are left to pick from, at least in western Washington. This lack of farmage is causing my desire for lovely feathered chickens and brown-eyed cows to be pushed further and further away from reality. Worse yet, the solid thought that we might be on a farm in time for Autumn, my favorite season, has been dashed into near non-existence. If happy dreams can't be had then I am left with traumatic ones.

In an effort to overcome this situation, Joe and I have expanded our farm search south into western Oregon. While the farms there are lovely, it is hotter there in the summer and I hate heat.

Still, we have found one farm in Oregon that beckons us, but negotiations are proving difficult (more fodder for bad dreams) (sigh). And while the house is charming (a Prairie Square – combo prairie house/American foursquare) there is no barn, no garage, no shop, no greenhouse, no garden space, no orchard, in fact there isn’t much more than 30 of the flattest acres I’ve ever seen planted in hay and the house. Despite the absence of supporting outbuildings or even a fringe of shady trees around the house (most unfarmlike), it is farm. This is true due to the presence of crops.

The small town nearby is lovely and very proud of its place in Oregon history. We loved the town. Huge Victorian houses and tiny charming cottages line the streets. The shops are small and quaint and the Post Office was cool with the ‘old’ post office windows as a backdrop behind the new post office counter. The ma and pa grocery (yes, it really was one – he was at one register and she was at the other) had the best donuts ever and the milk they sold was in glass bottles with cream gathered at the top. The town had a distinct sense of community that outweighed the lack of outbuildings on the farm. Don’t ask how that works, it just did. We made an offer and even a counter offer so far. Now we must wait until Tuesday for a reply to the counter offer. Should be interesting.

My dearest hope is that we can work this out soon so I can get some relief from my rampant PTFS symptoms. Securing a farm will get me back to dreaming of better things. Things like decorating a Prairie Square home (will French country work?) and planning a garden to be located somewhere within the vast confines of 30 flat acres of hay.

Maybe that last one isn’t such a good dream… it has the makings of PTGP, Post Traumatic Garden Planting. Is there no end?