I’m a city girl with family roots in dairy farming. It was a few generations ago, before WWII, but I grew up with farm stories all around me, and I was even blessed to visit my Great Auntie and Uncle on their farm in Minnesota when I was but a wee lass. I remember it with perfect clarity.
I remember the air, the smells (good, bad and interesting), the first time I saw fireflies, mucking the cow stalls, watching Uncle Milt hook his lovely ladies up to the milking machines, feeding the cats some cream so they would keep catching mice with gleeful hearts, riding the tractor and swinging on a rope swing hanging on a branch that was so high I could see into the second story windows of the house at full arc.
There are other memories that have grown in fondness over time. Back then, the kitchen garden, the fresh rhubarb dumplings and the tea cabinet were not as interesting for a kid as they are now that I’m running my own home and family life. But boy, oh boy, how I remember them today!
Last week, my family and I were invited to the farm of some friends to help them move some cows on their property. How could I possibly pass this up? The chance for my kids to see, explore and witness work on a small family farm, it was too good to miss. So off we went, my heart swelling when we hit the dirt road, my mind giddy as we visited the new puppies in the barn, and my trigger finger ready to capture pictures of the whole thing.
After hours of visiting and exploring I could not help but wonder (again), is this the life for me? I have been torn my entire life. The city vs the country. A house vs some property. A cat vs a cow. Am I the Farmer in the Dell?