I’ve heard it said that a grain of sand can tip the scale,
but in my opinion it is the pile of sand before it that rarely gets the
attention. By the time I reached 40 I felt like I was in a constant struggle to
climb the dune I had created.
Turning 30 was fun and I was sure I had everything figured
out, at least on the outside. I was married with two kids and very content with
my day-to-day life. Things got even better when we bought a little 20-acre farm
on the outskirts of town.
I’ve written many times before that I grew up on a farm, and when my boys were entering grade school I had the strongest desire for them to experience country life. The run-down, cat-infested place we purchased turned out to be the best place to let a couple of boys roam and discover things on their own.
Apparently I left a few people wondering what Fireball is, from my post about my boys growing up on a farm. I may have even left the impression that they were sweet little boys.
Let me set the record straight.
Even before moving to the farm, those two boys of mine kept me on my toes. They were curious about everything. One time my youngest tried to electrocute himself with the Christmas tree lights. That was after he fell in the river and almost drowned. But moving to the farm was an open door to explore nature and the world around them.
There are some years in my life that don’t really stand out much. Just another year that went by with no life changing event or trauma. After everything I’ve been through, I kind of cherish those years. But 1992 was a year I remember fondly.
Buying a small farm and fixing it up was challenging, but so very rewarding. The day we moved into our little farm was my 32nd birthday, and Mother’s Day. I was born on Mother’s Day, so every few years or so, my birthday falls on that Sunday. When that happens most of my friends are busy celebrating Mother’s Day, and so I usually don’t count on a big to do.
That day was different.
…continued from part one
Remember I told you I was raised on a farm, right? Well, I was no stranger to the non-romantic side of farm life.
Sunday was ‘chicken day’ on our family farm. My dad would get a large pot of boiling water, grab a chicken and break it’s neck with his big strong hands, then grab it by it’s feet, dunk it in the hot water and hand it to one of us. All in one swift motion. I could barely hold up that stinky wet dead chicken with my left hand as I plucked its feathers out with my right.
So I should be able to handle a few inbred cats, right?
You know those stories about the crazy old lady with a bunch of cats? This one’s a little different.
When my boys were little I wanted to give them the experience of growing up on a farm, like I had. Maybe you need to have been a farm kid to understand that, which my husband wasn’t. But he did agree and we purchased a 20-acre farm in Tumalo, Oregon.
However, what we could afford wasn’t pretty. Thankfully I had a knack for looking past the debris, disrepair and cow manure to see the potential.
I had a few friends that lived outside of Bend, (where we lived) in a little community called Tumalo. Most had land and a few had horses.
As a kid one of our neighbors had horses and I was allowed to ride one once. It wasn’t a good experience. Whoever synched up the saddle didn’t do a very good job of it. About the time that horse took off on a trot, the saddle started slipping sideways.