No Arnold the Pig. Not Yet, Anyway.

They are building more buildings in my semi-rural town up here in north-central Connecticut. I used to complain about this when I lived in New Jersey. One of the reasons my wife and I moved up here was to escape suburban sprawl. But like taxes and telemarketers, the sprawl followed me all the way up I-84 and into the Farmington Valley.

I used to follow the regional news in New Jersey as it related to Green Acres Funds, which were designated for open space acquisition or park development. I haven’t heard the term used here yet. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, when I hear the term I immediately think of three things, and I’m not sure if I want to spend my valuable time thinking about those three things:

1. hotcakes that are too hard to eat

2. buying stuff from the affable Mr. Drucker

3. climbing up a utility pole simply to use the phone.

That’s because (for those of you who have been sleeping under a tractor), Green Acres Funds reminds me of Hooterville, the little town that’s at the heart of that classic 1960s television sitcom, “Green Acres.” Even without the name of the open space funding program there were many things about living in New Jersey that reminded me of Hooterville. For instance, Oliver Wendell Douglas left New York City because he felt an affinity for the sprawling fields and fresh air of the mountain area between the towns of Pixley and Petticoat Junction; similarly, Green Acres Funds are used to purchase, protect, preserve and promote wide open spaces in the Garden State. Secondly, Hooterville manages its budget by keeping the collected taxes in a little box at Sam Drucker’s store, and town officials dip into it whenever they need the money. Where I lived in New Jersey, fiscal finances were handled with pretty much the same level of sophistication. (I’m not yet sure how it’s done in my new town in Connecticut; I’m working on it.) Also, Hooterville is home to Mr. Kimball, who, despite having a sieve for a brain, is the county inspector in charge of making sure all the proper procedures are being met by all the farmers in town. There was a correlation in New Jersey and I believe there’s one in Connecticut. At both locations I've dealt with property inspectors and contractors who make Mr. Kimball look like Atticus Finch.

I know, I know—that’s a bad comparison because Atticus Finch was a lawyer, not a county inspector. But that only serves to remind me of yet another similarity between Hooterville and my old and new hometowns: the all have plenty of people who shouldn't be doing what they're doing. We all know teachers who should be shoe salesmen rather than standing in the front of a classroom, and repairmen who should be doing stand-up rather than taking apart our washing machines. We've all had an Eb working for us at one time or another. We’ve all gone outside in our nightclothes when we thought no one was looking, as Lisa Douglas in "Green Acres" has been observed doing on numerous occasions. (I’m not criticizing, mind you, just observing.) And we've all hired contractors to fix the same damn door time and time again. The comparisons are endless. So let’s bring on those Green Acres Funds. I guess I do like to be reminded of Hooterville, because it makes me realize that I'm living in a real-life sitcom of my own.

 

You’ll have to excuse me now. It’s time for my morning hotcake.