I've been eating so much raw garlic to help my immune system that you were probably bowled over by the fumes when you opened this email. Sorry about that. 

 

This week I have the distinct pleasure of introducing you to one of our newest writers, Matthew Olshan. I found Matthew tucked away in the backwoods of Pennsylvania by way of a pressure canner purchase via Facebook Marketplace. Who knew such a benign kitchen appliance would yield such a treasure. 

 

When we picked up the canner, Matthew gave me and my boyfriend a tour of the lovely homestead he had built for himself and his wife over the last fifteen years. Let me tell you, folks, this place is amazing. You've already been introduced to one portion of it through Matthew's recent piece --  How – and Why – to Build a Passive Solar Greenhouse. 

 

After learning that Matthew was a writer as well, I knew I had to convince our Head Homesteader, James, to bring Matthew on board. Ladies and gents, let's get to know our newest contributor to Rural Sprout.
 

 

"I'm a writer by trade -- novels, children's books, articles, op eds, etc. I've been writing seriously since I was fifteen or so, which was about the time I met Shana, a singing friend at first, who was to become my wife more than ten years later. We grew up in Washington, D.C., and both went to school on the grounds of the National Cathedral. 

 

Shana understood the centrality of my writing from the beginning. It's really thanks to her, and the space she helped create for it, that I've been able to pursue my literary ambitions over the decades.

 

But writing has only ever been half of the story for me. I wouldn't say I have hobbies, per se, but I do have an obsession with learning how to do new things. I love a new challenge, whether it be improvising a meal; building an experimental greenhouse; or flying an airplane. 

 

Our daughter, Nina, has inherited this trait. She's currently living and working in London, where she helps LGBT+ asylum-seekers navigate the U.K. bureaucracy. She's about to start a graduate course in botany in Edinburgh. 

 

Why botany? Because, obsession!"
 

 

Shana and I started looking for a place on the water -- any kind of water -- nearly twenty years ago. We were living in Baltimore and starting to feel cooped up. We drew a circle on a map that represented a two-hour drive from home, which was the longest we felt we could realistically handle on a regular, weekend basis.

 

Problem: we couldn't afford anything. 

 

That circle on the map put us in competition with everyone from Baltimore and half of Washington, D.C. And at the time, we weren't exactly made of money.

 

So we put the search on hold. Then Hurricane Katrina happened. Seeing the images from the aftermath of that storm rekindled our interest in finding a place outside of the city. It was clear that in case of any large-scale emergency, we'd likely have to fend for ourselves.

 

We redrew our circle on the map. This time, Shana closed her eyes and plopped down her finger. It landed a bit north of Carlisle, PA, an area we hadn't considered in our seach. We started looking again, and, after a few false positives, finally found Pencil Creek: twelve rolling acres on Shermans Creek with a 200-year-old farmhouse -- and lots of poison ivy. 

In other words, heaven.
 

 

Our daughter named it. Nina was very young when we bought the property. She couldn't pronounce the word "Pennsylvania." Instead, she'd say, "Pencil." She was excited about the place and would tell anyone in earshot about the amazing "Pencil Creek" it had.

 

I liked the writerly association with "pencil," and the name stuck.
 

 

In the fifteen years or so that we've had the place, we've done all kinds of work, but only as we've been able to afford it. It's one thing to fantasize about a gut renovation of an old house, but unless you have a big chunk of money, it's wise to proceed piecemeal, which is what we've done.

 

We stretched our budget to the limit to buy the property. It wouldn't have been prudent to borrow a lot of money for renovations at the beginning. But it sure would have been nice to start the renovation of the old farmhouse with a clean slate!

 

The big projects on the property -- building our dream barn-home; cooking up the passive solar greenhouse; and establishing a small orchard -- have all happened in the last five years. It would have been wonderful if we'd been able to get them going ten or fifteen years ago. But it just wasn't possible.

 

Actually, I do have one regret: I wish I'd bought a skid loader early on. In the year and half since I bought our used Cat 267B, I've been able to do a tremendous amount of work on the property. Of course, there's been a learning curve with the machine, but that's my favorite kind of curve.
 

 

I don't miss a whole lot about life in the city. We finally sold our house in Baltimore a few months ago after living in it for twenty-five years. Letting go of it came as a great relief -- although I do miss the amazing cloud castle bed I built for Ms. Nina when she turned three.

 

Setting aside the normal pleasures of city life -- cafes, museums, a good wine shop -- I do miss the close proximity of friends. I met a lot of fascinating writers when I was studying in the Johns Hopkins Graduate Writing Seminars. Of course, over the years, most of them left Baltimore for greener pastures.

 

And now we have, too. 
 

 

Many rust-belt cities, and Baltimore in particular, suffer from decades of tax flight and chronic underinvestment, not to mention the structural challenges of income inequality and racism. Baltimore's international reputation as a violent city, reinforced by TV shows like "The Wire," hasn't helped improve conditions there.

 

But setting aside its particular challenges, I just don't want to be living in a city, full stop. 

 

I grew up in cities; was educated in cities; raised a family in a city. I come from city people and I've always thought of myself as "city folk." 

 

But at this stage of my life, I want something different. I'm not interested in living in a densely populated, noisy, dirty, stressful place. 

 

It's as simple as that. 

Oh, I think many of our readers and myself can understand that.
 

 

I would start by saying that in no way is life in the country simpler!

 

In a lot of ways, it's more complicated. Services one takes for granted in a city -- trash collection; city water; city sewerage; tree removal; snow plowing -- have a very different complexion in the country.

 

There are new distances to contend with. Everything is far away.

 

There's an initial sense of social isolation. You have to come to terms with the fact that you'll always be an outsider -- if not an interloper -- in the eyes of many of your neighbors.

 

Internet connectivity can be a real problem. We're still waiting for Starlink.

 

The biggest challenge we're likely to face is access to healthcare. In Baltimore, we were surrounded by world-class hospitals. Here in the hinterlands, it's a forty-minute drive to the nearest decently equipped ER. That, or an absurdly expensive helicopter ride, if it's a matter of life or death.

 

Having said all that, at Pencil Creek, we start and end each day in the most amazing, glorious, wildly challenging place I've ever lived. 

 

If that's not worth all the headaches and hard work, I don't know what is.