|BFF and Tammy's Farmer in the background|
|The old barn at Tammy's dairy farm|
After all, I live in a cookie-cutter house in a sub-division in a suburb of a smallish-sized city. How exciting, huh? Words like commute and cul-de-sac are a part of my daily life. We have to worry about who is bothered when Boomer barks too much. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I love my home and my neighbors (yes, we actually know our neighbors about three houses down in each direction on both sides of the street). When we moved in several of them actually baked us cookies and a cake to welcome us. I thought I had died and gone to Mayberry. It really is a great place to be.
It's just that Tammy's vocabulary includes words like mud room, hay mow, silo and milking parlor. She sells raw milk and compost and feeds her family organic meat she raises herself. Her back yard has a whole mountain in it. Mine has a privacy fence (although I don't know why since our houses are two-story and you can see into six backyards from the upstairs bathroom window - so much for privacy). My house was built almost thirty years ago. Her "farmhouse" is "turn of the century, circa 1890." Mine sounds like a fixer-upper, hers sounds vintage and historic. She has a parlor, I have a den. (Dens are where wild animals live...hmm, maybe we're closer than I thought...)
|Dolly: a name means not for slaughter|
|Welcome to the Davis Farmhouse, the door's always open.|
Once when we visited Tammy's dairy farm, she wanted to show me the new barn (another vocabulary word I wish were mine). It wasn't really new - it was only new to me since it'd been about twelve years since I'd been there, when they were just about to build it. I grabbed the only jacket I'd packed and my new tennies and rounded the corner to the back door. This is the jacket I was wearing:
Tammy said, "I love you. You're beautiful." But she was laughing at me. She helped me out of my jacket and handed me one of her hubby's. I had to borrow her son's boots too - such a city girl. I shrugged and said defensively, "I don't own barn clothes!" Tammy just laughed some more.
|No name pigs - Uh oh!|
I don't get to wake up to a snow-dusted Rockwell painting right outside my back door or say to my kids, "Wake up, it's time for barn chores." I don't get to feed my potato peels and egg shells to the chickens, nor do I own a pasture or get to help birth a calf. My kids don't build bonfires in the side yard or play hide and seek in the hay bales or milk cows or harvest maple sap and make syrup. We don't have a creek, or a north ridge, or even a visible sunrise.
|Headed home from pasture|