I am plagued these days by memories from my past. They are good memories. Memories of canning tomatoes and making applesauce with my mother. Memories of chasing barn cats around my great-aunt's farm. Memories of climbing fences to catch a glimpse of her sheep. Playing in the irrigation ditch. Discovering the root cellar in the trees out back of her house. Using the old outhouse on my great-uncle's farm. Staring up at the nearly 60 year old trees (planted when my mother was little) that held the longest swing I had ever seen. Helping my grandmother water her garden...
Speaking of gardens, when I look to see who the gardeners are these day, it seems many of them are over 50. They are people whose families depended on the garden in their youth; and now, although a trip to the market is too easy, life wouldn't seem quite right if vegetables weren't growing in their back yards. It is almost as if something in the blood drives them to garden.
I watched a movie the other day about a farmer in the early 1900's. When I lay in bed that night, my memories crowded my brain. I thought of my relatives that had farms and ranches, most of them gone, the farms sold. I felt as if part of my history was slipping away, and my children would never get to experience anything like it. I felt as if the blood of my ancestors was churning inside of me.
What if we did live in the country? We could have chickens and that cow I always joked about owning. My children would have real chores and learn the satisfaction you can only get from a job done with hard work. Finley could gather the eggs in the morning...
That's when reality hit me... I don't know the first thing about chickens. And I felt like a silly girl with silly dreams, a city girl with illusions of being a country girl. Who am I, anyway?
My husband likes the idea of owning a piece of land away from the fumes of the city, as well. He would like a tractor almost as much as I would. He has been searching for properties on the internet that might make for a good 'homestead.' He doesn't have as much of that sort of family history that I have (which I suppose isn't all that much, I suppose), and he doesn't know anything about chickens, either.
I have been weighing the pros and cons... If we moved out of the city it would be nice to be near someone we already knew, otherwise, the isolation might be too much. On the other hand, we aren't the biggest socialites, so it wouldn't be such a major shock to the system. Regardless, relationships with our friends would have to have a new level of purposefulness to them. Life in general would have to have a new level of purposefulness to it. It is easy to be lazy in the city, but serious gardening or raising animals doen't allow for that. There would be no more weekly storytime at the library. But I could send my kids out to play and let them discover nature instead of the endless trash floating down the drainage 'creek' in our back yard.
The biggest killers of dreams have to be ignorance and a helpless attitude. So I have been doing research. I have been reading about chicken, cows, and any other farm animals that might be a possibility. (Dairy cows are a whole lot more complicated than I thought.) I have been asking questions. I have been facing myself and my lack of discipline and have been realizing how much work it all would take... And I haven't been letting go of this dream. Not yet.
Finley enjoyed riding next to Mr. Cheese in his car.
Joe... not so much.
Finley didn't want to sit on stage with the big, freaky dog... She was afraid he'd step on her.
And the fine, birthday lady upon the white horse. 
