I grew up in the village (hamlet? intersection?) of Perkinsfield, Ontario. It’s so small it doesn’t even get a dot on the Ontario map. Even google gets confused when you try to find it. It used to have a fast food stand shaped like a giant hot dog that made it fairly memorable to cottagers driving through, but that shut down.
I’ve lived in Toronto since 2003. I like the city. I like going to concerts on school nights and having delicious Indian food delivered straight to my door. I like my friends here. I like my workplace. I like my choir. I even like my apartment.
The thing is, I’ve never actually loved the city. There were a few early years when I thought it might be love, but Toronto lost a little fairy dust each time I got stuck on a sweaty TTC car, was woken by police sirens, or forked over a massive rent cheque.
To me, Toronto is like a nice, A-type, career-minded person. I appreciate and admire it. But it takes itself too seriously. It forgets there are other ways to be. It gets caught up in schedulers, americanos and expensive shoes. And all of that stuff has me itching to buy a few acres, throw on some wellies and buy a goat.
Which brings me to an interesting question. Ten years is a friggin long time. Is country life the way I remember it?
I have this vision of people wearing sweatpants to the grocery store, getting home at 5:15 p.m., and drinking beers on porches with long clotheslines flapping behind them. I imagine houses with wide open vistas, perfect for stargazing. My whole family laughing around my dinner table. Apple trees. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. But I might be idealizing things just a tad.
I will soon find out just how far off the mark my memory is. My partner Jean-François — the best, smartest, most handsome franco-ontarian this side of Markham — got a new office in Barrie and is buying us a house in Simcoe County. Probably in Elmvale, which is as close to Perkinsfield as we can get without making JF’s commute a major pain. My mother is thrilled.
This blog is my effort to catalogue our adventure. It might cover a little house hunting, a little decorating, a little job searching, and a little pondering. Maybe a little music (the other love of my life) too. Either way, I hope it will help you, my friends and family, keep abreast of my movements.
I guess you could say this big change in my life is an exercise in dream chasing. I have no job, no distinct plans, and will very soon have no money. But I’m optimistic. As addle-brained as this whole thing might be, it feels right.
That said, please wish me luck. I will need it.
Your description of country living gave me goosebumps. It was right on point….I had just forgot how lucky I am to be living it. Thanks for the reminder.
Can’t wait to read more!!!
Maybe you should check out some houses near Port…JF’s favorite town. He could have a car up on blocks in his front yard and fit right in. Haha!
Great idea to start a blog, my dear.
You are living the dream! Can’t wait to read more about your adventures.
Great post! Look forward to reading the others. Americanos and expensive shoes will miss you! 🙂 PS – If you get a goat, can you please please please name it Casper? Then we can call him/her Casper the Friendly Goat! just saying…xxoo K
Thanks, friends! xo
Anne-Marie, we’re currently scoping out some places in Coldwater and Vasey — you never know, Port might be next!
Kiran, if I get a goat, I promise to name him Casper. And I’ll get another one named Billy.
Can’t wait to read about your new chapter in life!! Wishing you all the best!! xo
Oops! Forgot to post my name:) Hi Mik!! From Kendra:)
I live in the “country” but I don’t have an urge to own a goat yet. I’m beginning to feel like an old goat. I did go downtown in my sweats and got told off by my friend who caught me wearing them. No transit, no street cars, however, cars (going in the opposite direction) will stop and the drivers will talk about God knows what while the rest of us wait…Get used to country living.
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Hey this is so cool that is my grandmother property and I worked there at the time of this photo at the 4 Conors right beside the Observer across from st Patrick’s cemetery. Love seeing post about where I was raised. Thank you for posting this