Currently, I'm reading The Dirty Life. It's a story about a woman who suddenly finds herself uprooting everything she has been her whole life, falling in love with a rustic farmer and starting a farm from scratch with him.
Now, I've found myself, more often then not, totally relating to her, the situations she finds herself in and the path she chooses to take. I'm not exactly on a path like hers, I'm actually following that path in an arcing fashion.
I was raised more on a farm then not (meaning I did farm-esque chores and had more of a farm life then any other kid I was friends with. I know how to clean out animal pens, identify types of chickens by their egg color and clip wings while I don't know how to play Super Mario, I couldn't name more then two cartoon shows and I wouldn't be able to name all the charms in Lucky Charms). Some of the stories the author tells remind me of times on my parents land, the ridiculous things I've done in the name of 'farming' and what I plan to do with my life.
As much as I've tried to fight the farmers life, it's buried deep inside my soul. I have come to terms with the fact that I will spend the rest of my life somewhere within the vicinity of farming. Lucky girl I am, in my attempts to push myself further into urban life, I've found myself smack dab in the middle of a (really good) relationship with a guy who, at some point, wants to join the over-all wearing, straw hat totin', hoin' kind.
|Fresh from my parents garden.|
As I sit here, remembering the feel of the air, the smell of the grass and the sounds surrounding me, I can also imagine the scoffing my parents just be doing right now. It's hard growing up doing different things then all your friends. Of course, when I was 12 the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday morning was clean out the rabbit run, shovel chicken crap or help stack wood, but as I'm getting older and moving to all these different, mostly more urban places, I miss those days.
|The garden after my sister's wedding.|
Maybe it's the time of year, with winter coming and the holidays close behind. I think I miss the warmth of the wood stove in my parents' kitchen, the smell of baking bread, the familiar puddles of warmth in bed as the hot water bottle heats the covers. I miss the tinkling of the front gate bell and the twinkle of the lights from the house shining through the holly tree out front. I miss my dog, Chasey, sleeping on her strangely over-stuffed yet too small for her dog bed and the silky soft cat who I swear will probably never die sneaking into the kitchen unnoticed by the dog to curl up on the chair by the wood stove.
It's so weird the things you miss as you get older.