If you would have asked me in school if I thought I’d grow up to be a farmgirl, I would have said you were nuts. I spent my youth performing on stage, singing and acting. My plan was to go to college and get a Masters of Fine Arts in Musical Theater.
That was the plan. Everyone knew it.
But plans, no matter how solid, change.
“You moved to a farm?” I’ve heard a few times. “You have a…farm? But you belong on stage!”
I guess God needed me somewhere else.
Shortly after we moved here, I was paid a visit from an older family member that I didn’t often see. He knew me as a singer—a performer—not a farmgirl. He stopped by to see our new place, especially interested because he’d grown up on a farm himself.
He watched me come out of the house in Bog boots, threadbare jeans, an old flannel jacket, and a bandana wrapped around my head. I welcomed him and we started to talk.
We talked about about chickens and butchering and how we don’t whack their heads off, we use a kill cone.
Yes, we built the cones.
Yes, we’ve picked raspberries. Yes, we had a garden this year. No, we don’t have cattle. Yes, I like cattle, we just don’t have any.
We talked about hay. We talked about horses. We talked about pigs. He used to have pigs once.
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We walked and talked and as we moved around the farm, I noticed one of my little Nubians had gotten out of the fence.
I scooped her up, still talking about nothing having to do with Nubians, and plopped her into the arms of my oldest son who was in the pasture.
I kept right on talking, but my guest just stopped and stared at me.
“I’m so happy for you,” he said.
“You just…you walk out of the house looking like you, well…you talk about this and that like it’s what you’ve always…well,… you scoop that baby goat up like it’s the most natural thing in the world…”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m having trouble finding the words to explain myself.”
“I guess I’m just so happy for you because…you look like you belong here.”
Actually, I think that’s the perfect word to describe it.