Her dad and mine farmed together, and although I, like Allison, was never really a “farm girl,” I too reaped the benefits of a childhood full of country memories and farmyard reminiscences.
One of my fond memories rides on the waves of Allison’s -- that of harvest time, which I’m sure is not one of my dad’s favorite memories! (Dad chopped all day, milked all night, then got back in the chopper until the work was done -- several days without a pause for sleep, although he did confess to sleeping in the tractor. Somehow he always managed to wake up in time to turn around before driving out of the field, which was mind-boggling to me) While Allison and her siblings were in the silage truck with her dad, my brother, sister and I rode in the chopper tractor with my dad. I mean no offense to any of my uncles, but I always thought that since my dad was the only one who ever drove the chopper tractor and operated the dumpbox, that he must have been the bravest, strongest, best-est farmer on the farm. Okay, so I still think that. He’s my dad!
Chopping was also the season our family had the most picnics. Mom would pack up dinner and drive us all out to whatever field the guys were working so that our family could eat together. We’d pull into the field and bounce along over the corn stubble or grass tufts, following the tractor until the dump box was full. Then Dad would sprint to the car, eat dinner in record time, and race back to the tractor in time to dump the load into the silage truck before it even came to a complete stop. Totally heroic.
My favorite farm girl memory though, is when my dad would wake me up early on Sunday mornings -- still dark out -- and take me with to do the scraping and get ready for milking. He’d hold my hand and we’d walk through the spooky spot where the old barn rose up on one side of the road and the woods leaned in ominously on the other side, then down the road past a couple houses to the farm. I don’t remember much of what we did at the farm those early morning nights. Mostly I remember walking with him, my little hand in his big, rough one, our barn boots making that distinctive barn boot slapping sound.
Sometimes I wish I could give those same memories to my kids. Sometimes I worry they’re missing out on so many great things by being “town kids” instead of “farm kids.” But then I remember that behind every sacred memory was love, and whether it was a farm, home, vacation or friendship memory, it was the infusion of love that made it powerful, wonderful, memorable. Maybe my kids won’t have memories of riding in tractors or swinging in hay lofts, but they’re being showered with love, which guarantees that they’ll have some great ones of their own someday, no matter where they grow up.
Thanks, Dad, for the great farm girl memories in my heart.
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