A Castle in the Woods

Image Gallery The front of the castle has the gazebo/sundeck, where tea is served each afternoon PHOTOS BY PAMELA PURCELL

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This is the true tale of a disillusioned city dweller who opted for...

People often fantasize about trying out different (and usually, at least in the imagination, far better) lifestyles ... but few actually change the way they live. Social commitments, habit systems, and inertia stop most such dreamers cold. They just don't know that all it takes to realize a fantasy is a small amount of money ... a bit of luck ... and a whole lot of courage.

I was "old" when I came into a modest inheritance ... which amounted to a monthly income of around $100. I was pretty much alone, too, with my wife gone and all of my children grown up.

Furthermore, my house—an old mansion in a decaying residential area—was like a mausoleum ... a tomb that required care, cleaning, and endless costly repairs. I was plagued with taxes, light bills, gas bills, water bills, heating bills, and the helpless feeling that resulted from watching my old neighborhood disintegrate into an urban ghetto.

SECURITY GONE SOUR

There were other factors prodding me toward a life-changing decision, too. I had a "good job" as an associate professor in a medical school, so I received a salary raise each year, but—of course—it was always more than swallowed up by inflation.

And, as time passed, the medical students grew more unruly and less interested in learning. The standards of the school steadily dropped, and my department became a hotbed of "office politics", backbiting, and resentment.

Each evening, as soon as I got home, I'd change into my old (and not too clean or mended) jeans and muddle about in the garden ... finding there the only real moments of satisfaction left in my urban life. (I was even pleased when the city's wildlife, the rats, drank from my garden pool at night! )

In such a melancholy environment, it was no wonder that I suffered (along, no doubt, with many others) from continual hankering, vexation, and apathy. But then I inherited my little income, and I thought, "I want out. Oh man! Do I ever want out! "

The only person I really had to consider, before making a move, was my loyal friend and housekeeper, Joe, who—for 17 years—had cooked for me and my boys and cared for the mansion. He'd been in trouble with the law once and had only a fifth-grade education, but he'd learned far more about the world than I had with all my degrees ... and somewhere along the line he'd developed a talent for whipping up meals fit for a king!

It seemed out of the question for me to ask Joe to move to a pretty, ticky-tacky house in the suburbs, because he seemed to have an inherent dislike for anything modern. (He even kept the cords of our few electrical appliances tied in knots, as if to choke them!) My companion also insisted on using iron skillets and old ironstone platters in his kitchen, confessing once that he'd always wanted to cook on a woodstove. Furthermore, I knew I could never live in an apartment, a type of dwelling which I consider to be only slightly better than a prison.

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