Moving to the Country

                When I was a kid, my dad brought my brother and I a pair of young chickens that lived in a refrigerator box in the house.  Mine was a cockerel named Bandit, so called because of the time he escaped at dinner and stole a noodle off of my dad’s plate.  I was scared of what my dad might say or do to the ill-mannered bird, but my dad just laughed.  When the chickens were old enough to move out to the farm with my grandmother, I didn’t really get to visit.  During a sudden storm, they and some other birds froze in the cedar tree by the house.

                After my grandmother died, my parents bought the farm so it would stay in the family.  Although we had a home in our small town, we stayed at the farm.  Being in middle school, I found the opportunity exciting, as did my friends who visited for sleepovers.  We had a bigger garden than was previously possible.  We ordered some chickens through the mail and had rabbits.  We even tried raising cows, although that proved too expensive and heart wrenching an endeavor.  My brother and I learned to drive the small Ford tractor.  We could fish whenever we wanted.  When the pond flooded, we tried to keep minnows from going over the hill.  It was so different than life before that.

                Eventually we returned to our primary residence.  I was glad to have all of the comforts of home.  I no longer worried about coyotes or the idiot who shot out our car window one night as we slept, oblivious.  While we still had the farm animals, they were less of a hassle now that we had to drive to take care of them at fixed intervals.  I was free from the gaze of the Pamela doll my brother and I were convinced was possessed.  I had a chance of passing as more normal amongst my peers.

                Still, I sort of missed it.  When I was upset at the farm, I could always go out to the barn and hold an understanding bunny or chicken until I felt somewhat better.  Instead, I would turn the rock music up a bit louder and let my rage consume me.  I could not walk up on the hill where countless animals, including 500-pound hogs from my dad’s youth, were buried.  If a pet died in the city, it was still generally taken to the farm for burial.  Now that I live in a godforsaken trailer park, I still utilize the informal cemetery land as needed for cats and guinea pigs so they will be together in the afterlife.  I miss the space and privacy that came from neighbors who could not see my every move.

               

                This year is the big year.  I am in the process of tying up some loose ends and taking on the family farm with my husband and daughters.  There are four chickens left, and we will buy more when the barn is more secure against predators.  Last night I purchased two lionhead rabbits from a 4-H acquaintance, which we may breed one time in the future.  I am going through everything I own to downsize to make such a move easier, sifting through the history of the past six years.  My Pinterest and Facebook feeds are filled with homesteading hints that I hope will be put to good use.  The plans get more ambitious daily, although I know it will not be easy, even if we start small.

                It will not be an easy move, however.  We have to unload the undesirable trailer, hopefully to one of the Hispanic neighbors who love to tear them down to the bare studs and remake them.  The farm will need some updates, like a heater, water heater, and so on.  The tractor has four tires that will need to be fixed or replaced.  It is a tall order, but we are excited to know how much more freedom and space we will have.  Hopefully the road to the countryside is not too bumpy.