A country village

To cap off my week of history, I visited Old Sturbridge Village. It's a living history museum that recreates life in the 1830s in rural New England, with a few tweaks. For instance, the village boasts both a printer and a tin-worker, neither of which were common in most 19th-century villages. But once you're there, the inaccuracies don't seem to matter; the whole village shows such a foreign way of life that being there is like stepping into another world.

Every room is furnished and set as though the inhabitants had just stepped out for a walk or an errand. Papers left scattered on the table, dinner still cooling on the tavern dining table. I visited on a cool, rainy weekday afternoon, so there were only a few costumed interpreters to talk to.

Except for the groups of middle-school students running from house to house and bleating at the sheep, the village was very quiet. Eerie, even--like the whole town had up and left one morning.

I love living history museums, and this one was no exception. You're immersed in the time period, and you can move around within it at your leisure. At the same time, it's nothing like 1830s New England, since the fields are empty of farmers with their plows, and most of the hearths are cold. Plus, you're always on the outside looking in, even if you're helping churn butter. You're always going to head home to your television and your electric stove.

One of my dreams is to live in a country village, to return to some of those rhythms of life. I'd like a little clapboard house with a red door, and a kitchen garden out back. Some chickens in the yard. I'd like to be able to walk down the street to visit a friend on a moment's notice, and watch the neighborhood kids playing outside on the green. Sometimes that dream seems close enough to touch. And sometimes it seems very far away.