Ammi Midstokke: When history repeats itself

Back in 1985, my youthful and blissfully unaware parents had this fantastic idea that they could move back to the land. They would lead a simple life with their children, grow their own food, cut down the wood to build their own house, and be free from the oppressive battle of being an American grown up.

Boy were they wrong.

It turns out, living off the land is really hard work that takes a moderate amount of skill. Mind you, this was before YouTube, where you can now achieve master craftsmanship skills in a two-minute video. They had to read books and, well, make a lot of mistakes.

I don’t remember their suffering or stress as much as I have vague memories of my dad freaking out because we forgot to start the generator. Or that time my mom nearly blew up the inverter trying to make espresso (we were sophisticated hippies). I remember stacking a lot of wood, shoveling a lot of snow, and hiking the 2-mile driveway with a sled full of laundry.

These things were a way of life. I don’t recall thinking our family was particularly different than any other family – except we got really excited when all five of us crammed into a motel room for the night and watched a TV. And we had never even really heard of camping, because most summers my bedroom was a tent.

It wasn’t until I was 9 and went to public school that I discovered there were other ways of living. I also discovered New Kids on the Block and was rather disappointed that no one knew Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, or David Bowie.

This was the beginning of an era of resistance. Why couldn’t we have a telephone? Or indoor plumbing? Why did my parents move to the woods anyway? You know in other people’s homes they just turn a switch and it gets warm. Those kids don’t have to do nearly as many chores as I do. What kind of torturous childhood is this anyway?

I vowed to move to the city as soon as I had my freedom. I would never chop wood again. The water pump would never freeze. The lights would never dim.

I experienced all that for the last 20 years – modern amenities, urban living and what-not. Turns out, I kinda like chopping wood, and it’s cheaper than CrossFit. Thus, in my romantic nostalgia of off-grid homestead memories, I did a crazy thing this week.

I bought a house.

On 10 acres.

Off-grid.

And just like my parents, I am already making all kinds of ridiculous rookie mistakes. Like deciding to move in the middle of winter to a home that has a) no supply of firewood and b) questionable access during snow season. Because if you’re going to do something hard, why not make it almost impossibly hard?

This is the beginning of a new adventure in crazy, one that I will schlepp my entire family through, because somewhere rooted deep in my core belief system is the idea that hardship makes for strong character.

Also, I am naively clinging to the idea that it isn’t that hard. If only because I have many more resources than my parents had, like YouTube and The Idiot’s Guide to Solar Powered Homes.

And, of course, my parents. Something tells me they now know a thing or two about moving back to the land…