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.
