Back in the 1970's I saw a lot of rich kids from the cities with parents to bank roll them, to a point, sporting a a back to nature, living off grid spirit ... folks in a geodesic dome house or yurt.
The nicknames of granolas, hippies, those left handed cigarette smokers with the VW micro buses, plastered with peace symbols, Grateful Dead stickers.
Far out man. Right on. Out of sight.
Some viewed radical, looked at with suspicion.
Or plain and simple backward. Well, living off the land in Maine, anywhere is not all glamorous. It is hard work, consistent effort needed round the clock.And you have to just like the Pilgrims starting out, worry about the weather, crop growing conditions that you have no control over.
The basics of staying warm, having shelter, three meals a day with safety for your family never goes out of style.
But sometimes an urban dweller, city slicker could wonder what is wrong with these long hairs living off grid? Not enjoying their double shot of this, two more of that latte espresso coffees they paid eight dollars for a piece.
Missing out on slurping them from a high rise condo or cooperative terrace veranda with this jaw 
dropping vista.
"Are they social misfits that quarantined themselves like casts off from the North Pole did on Misfit Island?"
These thoughts are what some wonder wearing the designer labeled clothes with the imported monograms.
Not so long ago 96% of us were farmers.
Jack of all trade tinkerers.
Three generations living under one roof line.
Yes, like the Waltons.
Because of tight family structure, needing each other to survive on the Maine farm that had been passed down over the years.
Working with the timber stands in cedar swamps, hardwood ridges. Tilling the fertile soil to bust up the sods, remove the rocks. To produce crops or raise critters. No time for depression or lament on what they wished they had or how bad their plight in life. Or what they were missing in the "bright lights, big city" setting.
Survival, not a 40 hour a week job where you take the 8:15 in to the city, have to be to work by 9 and the girls are trying to look pretty.
Glad to have a table with bowls, platters of food you grew that is nutrious, home made with tried and tested family recipes.
The kind you win blue ribbons at local state fairs with that your
grandmother could make with her eyes closed, from just memory.
Your HBO is outdoors and you are unplugged.
All four seasons you and the wildlife commune.
You sample the local lakes, rivers, watering holes.
You help the neighboring farm family get their barn up.
The favor is returned next weekend on your home turf.
More wholesome spreads of local delicacies, in season food. No money, just bartered labor and the sweat, toil of everyone to get the job done right.
When you are stuck in traffic and do the math, figuring 10% of your life is spend waiting for someone, something to move. Your number to come up. And another 15% of your time, resources wasted on personal safety because where you live there are gangs. Crime, noise, bad areas and people to avoid if you treasure your life, and each and every family member in it. In the land of dead bolts, tasers, security systems and body guards. Maine, leave all that behind. Shake your life Etch O Sketch and start over. I happen to know of a good Maine real estate broker with a healthy supply of land, farms to change your life back drop, green screen. Let's talk soon.
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