Chosen

Suburban Connecticut is a far cry from the rambling ranches of Colorado and Texas. Twenty-acre plots that seem so massive here don’t dare dream of competing against the thousand-acre behemoths supporting countless head of beef cattle. We manage somehow, though.

I’ve been working for Ted for something close to ten or eleven years now. It’s my world, and my life.

I remember the first time I met him, when I was maybe fourteen years old. It was Chester Fair, I was wearing black shoes, and, God, my feet hurt at the end of it. Then, standing in front of the sheep, he handed me sixty bucks and asked if he’d see me next weekend.

If he only knew what he was getting himself into…

I was not born into the “farm life”. My family has never been concerned about acreage, fence lines, or zoning. My grandmother had horses, but growing up three thousand miles from her made them a distant idea, like space travel, or winning the lottery. I had dogs and cats when I was a child, not goats and sheep. Our dinners came plastic-wrapped from the grocery store. Hamburger had very little to do with the wide-eyed cows mooing from the side of the road as we drove past. Being a little girl, I always wanted a pony, but I had very little idea of what it meant.

I was always the animal girl. Tormenting the cat by dancing with him down the hallway. Feeding the dog table scraps and insisting she come in when it got too cold out. Laying out a blanket for said dog so she would be “extra warm”. I was the one outside in the woods catching frogs and bugs to bring inside in mayonnaise jars and Rubbermaid totes. If a stray cat showed up, it was probably my fault. I wanted ponies and cows and elephants.

Sometimes you don’t grow out of things.

I chose to be country. It wasn’t an option my suburban parents thought they were offering me. They knew I never had a problem getting dirty, but… needing muck boots because I get knee-deep in manure? Sure, I always liked the way grass smelled, but… spending so much time in the hay barn I came home reeking of it? Weren’t there other options? Wasn’t I offered the chance to become a chef? Couldn’t I become a nurse like Q or maybe an accountant?

Nope.

There’s a draw to farm life. There’s nothing more emotionally freeing than stabbing a pitchfork into a dirty stall to release anger and frustration. There’s a sense of importance when you head up the hill after a cup of coffee to hear all the critters calling to you, “Feed me! I’m hungry! I need you because I don’t have thumbs!” It makes me feel calm and content when I can sit in a clean stall and reflect on everything. I take pride in my callused hands and farmer’s tan.

I sometimes worry that because it’s a life I chose, not a life I was born into, I’m somehow missing something. Does it matter that I never had a pig named Bacon? I was never in 4H; I never showed cows. Am I less a farmer because I grew up in a home with a swing set in the backyard and not a barn?

Nah. It’s what I love, and that’s all that matters, I’m sure.