The irony is that I already lived, and still live, pretty far out in the woods, though there’s a large meadow in back of the houses too, too. Whatever house I’m in is never small enough, nor the forest big and wild enough. I was always envious of the protagonist of the young-adult novel My Side of the Mountain, by Jean Craghead George, for running away from home and moving into a huge hollow tree. (I actually know a guy who lived in a hollow redwood stump in northern California for a while.)