At the cusp of the Great Depression, the humorist S.J. Perelman and his wife moved from Manhattan to a farm in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Fifteen years of rusticating left him with “a superb library of mortgages, mostly first editions, and the finest case of sacroiliac known to science.’’ Perelman recounted his picturesque miseries as a country squire in the 1947 collection Acres and Pains, which introduced readers to his real estate agent (Dewey Naïveté), his attorney (Newmown Hay, of Ashen, Livid & Hay) and his farm (Rising Gorge), which he describes as “an irregular patch of nettles bounded by short-term notes containing a fool and his wife who didn’t know enough to stay in the city.”
Perelman’s rueful tale gained its widest cultural currency when it was adapted into the 1960s sitcom “Green Acres,” about a New York lawyer who pines for a simpler life, and, over the objections of his socialite wife, buys a farm, sight unseen. His own dewy naiveté was neatly summed up in the theme song: Green Acres is the place to be / Farm livin’ is the life for me / Land spreadin’ out so far and wide / Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.
Possibly the most enthusiastic embrace of farm livin’ these days is found deep in the woods of Chattahoochee Hill Country, southwest of Atlanta. There lies Serenbe, a 1,000-acre suburban Eden comprising two neighborhoods (and counting) bunched around Ye Olde English village-style town centers. The hamlets are shaped like omegas to conform to the undulations of the land. Peach and pecan trees shoot up from the sidewalks; goats and llamas browse in dells; and lambs caper along the walking trails that curl through glens and glades.
Everything has been assiduously planned. Cottages and co-ops are built to energy-efficient EarthCraft specs. Waste water is filtered in a biological treatment system and reused for irrigation. The town centers are dotted with upmarket galleries, and a nonprofit cultural institute stages plays and sponsors artists in residence. There are stables, spas and, not least, a farm that produces 350 varieties of organic fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers.
“When I first visited here, I thought Serenbe felt artificial,” says E.C. Hall, a resident and retired college professor. “I thought of the prefabricated town in The Truman Show, created to exist separately from the rest of the world. That changed when I walked around and met people every few yards. I realized we all had a similar desire for community.”
Serenbe is perhaps the country’s most popular and profitable “agritopia,” the leafiest, farmiest of all the nascent trends in real estate, in which agrarian-focused housing schemes are anchored by farmland rather than, say, greenswards, man-made lakes or golf courses. Ranches, gardens and vineyards are major selling points. There are already dozens of agritopian developments and, fueled by the local-food movement, emerging widespread environmental consciousness, Perelmanesque romanticism and good old American marketing chutzpah, more are in the works—enough to qualify as a trend in America’s preeminent rural community paper, the New York Times.
Agritopias are popping up like dandelions across the country, and why not? Developers are nothing if not attuned to their customers, and what the customers want is increasingly clear. At Serenbe, that’s eight acres of farmland, which produce enough veggies to supply a half-dozen restaurants (three onsite), a farmer’s market and a Community-Supported Agriculture program with 120 members (most of whom live in outlying towns).
“The thing I like about the farm is that it’s as real as any I’ve ever worked on,” says Serenbe resident Rebecca Williams, a 31-year-old Atlanta native who worked at a variety of farms before she and her husband, Ross, purchased a 145-acre sheep’s milk dairy just outside the development. “It’s not a toy farm,” she says. “It’s serious agriculture.” Serenbe Farms is indeed professionally run, by a young idealist named Ashley Rodgers, who makes a comfortable living and has four full-time interns to boot. (They get a monthly stipend and free housing.)
Williams calls Serenbe the “leading edge” of the new suburbs, propelled by a history of what’s been shown to make people happy: physical closeness, which encourages human interaction; proximity to amenities, which creates the sense that what you need is readily at hand; green spaces, cultivated and wild, that provide places to play and explore; and varied architecture, which fosters a feeling of security, because it creates the sense that a place has existed for a long time. “All of these things create a genuine sense of safety,” she says, “which is the most basic element of community and without which happiness is impossible.”
The agritopia takes these principles and cleverly folds in agriculture. Everything new is invariably old. Americans have romanticized farming since the country began. In 1787, Thomas Jefferson wrote to George Washington that “Agriculture... is our wisest pursuit, because it will in the end contribute most to real wealth, good morals & happiness.” Today’s successful sales pitch includes snipping arugula from the garden and then picking apples and strawberries on the stroll home from work. The only thing missing from this fantasy are the bluebirds that take your coat as you walk in the front door.
A few years back, the pioneering architect and urban planner Andrés Duany wrote a manifesto, Garden Cities, proposing that agriculture woven into urbanism represented the future of our cities. “Sustainability to the point of self-sufficiency is where the market is going,” he wrote. But Garden Cities was meant to be more than a market-indicator. It was a warning: “To make a difference in the campaign against climate change,” he wrote, “agrarian urbanism must succeed in being profitable, popular and reproducible—with no downsides if possible.”
Which could be a tough row to hoe.
Ever watch the “Portlandia” sketch in which a couple of earnest diners ask their server not only about the diet of the chicken they are about to consume, but exactly how much land it lived on, and its name? The server returns with pedigree papers to prove that Colin was raised on a woodland diet of sheep’s milk, soy and, yes, local hazelnuts. Ultimately, the diners leave the table to visit the farm and see for themselves how Colin was brought up.
The residents of Bainbridge Island have some of the do-it-ourselves urban progressive preciousness associated with the food scene in Portland, Oregon, some 200 miles south. Within five minutes of entering a downtown coffee shop (where doughnuts are “hand-forged”), I hear enough buzzwords—fair trade, house-made, artisanal, locally sourced—to start a compost heap.
A gossamer-fine rain falls steadily across the Puget Sound, the kind of day Bainbridge Islanders call balmy. Happily, downtown is a five-minute stroll from Grow Community, at eight acres the largest planned solar settlement in Washington state. “The population is 30 percent environmentalists, 30 percent lawyers and 30 percent people who are concerned about the environment and have lawyers,” says project manager Greg Lotakis. “Somehow, that adds up to 100 percent.”
Lotakis escorts me to the Village, Grow Community’s first completed residential neighborhood. Streets are named Seed Path, Root Path and Sprout Path, as befits the setting for an urban farm. Raised pea-patch beds fronting each unit recall World War II victory gardens. Banks of berry bushes line the walkways. The 42 homes and apartments are, for the most part, wedged tightly together, the better to make use of limited space and encourage social interaction. Exteriors are Northwest Modern patchworks of board-and-batten cladding, and panels of concrete and corrugated steel. The cedar siding, I’m assured, comes from sustainably managed forests within 500 miles. There’s so much talk of “leaving small footprints” that I feel like I’m in a colony of elves.
For all its affectations and lack of racial diversity (Lotakis: “There are a lot of white people”), Grow Community is an honest attempt to change the way we live—a contemporary reboot of an old-fashioned American utopia. During the 19th century, when Utopianism had its heyday, the tapestry of sects included Brook Farm’s Transcendentalists, the free lovers of Oneida, New York, and the Shakers, religious cultists so called because they trembled during worship. The Shakers’ biggest problem was that they practiced celibacy, hence they are no longer with us. For them, at least, the road to Utopia was a dead end.
At Grow, Utopian living takes some getting used to. Though berries are there for the taking, some residents are reluctant pluckers. “Folks who weren’t involved with the gardens tend to be harvest-shy,” says resident Ron Kaplan. “Some berries went bad on the vine.” So Kaplan put up signs: “Pick Me.”
Some Village people—resident volunteers—would like to install a public composting machine; others cluck about henhouses that are solar-powered and self-propelled. When chicken coops do come to Grow, don’t be surprised if one of the roosters answers to Colin.
Of all the many things we learned from watching the first season of “The Real Housewives of Orange County,” the most jarring may be the fact that, at the time, seven million American families lived in gated developments.
These modern suburban fortresses are the kinds of places that mostly white and affluent Americans choose to live in when they want to feel safe—from crime, from economic uncertainty, from Americans who are not mostly white and affluent.
Today I’m touring Rancho Mission Viejo, a massive, partially gated community assembled on a swath of amber hills and grasslands where the Real Cattle of Orange County still graze. A brilliant mid-winter sun blooms over the Guest House, a welcome center not unlike the one at Disneyland, a half-hour drive up Interstate 5. The surrounding hillsides are speckled with tens of thousands of fruit trees. Inside, an immense property map hangs over a shelf of plastic lemons and avocados. “Homebuyers can enjoy the exclusive vistas of the citrus groves,” the Guest House greeter tells me, handing me a plastic bottle of water that bears the label: “The Ranch. Drink It In.”
Some might see the nearer roots of developments like Rancho Mission Viejo and other suburban agritopias in the community of Prairie Crossing, the Illinois hamlet founded in 1993 with a 100-acre organic farm and a reconstructed plain at its heart. But the closer prototype might be Columbia, Maryland.