The other night, as the sun was setting, I heard the sound of peepers. The next morning, I woke up to the cheerful songs of birds. The days are starting to get longer, which means winter is on its way out, and spring is skipping in! I love the sounds of nature, especially those that spring brings. It reminds me of growing up on the farm.
I feel so lucky that I grew up on a small dairy farm in Upstate NY. You might wonder why I feel this way. Well, I grew up with few outdoor boundaries, other than a fence line separating our property from the neighbor’s—who were also kinfolk. My family’s farm was about 300 acres. As a little girl, to me, that was the entire world. Let me share a few things from that 300-acre universe.
Right next to my house was The Pond. In the winter, it transformed into an ice-skating rink. Sometimes, my cousin Billy, the race car driver, would come over with his ATV. He’d tie baling twine to the back of the ATV, and I’d hold on tight while he pulled me across the pond on my ice skates. Then, I’d let go of the rope and go flying—zoomie-zoom-zoom, face-first into the snowbank. I’m laughing hysterically now just thinking about it, though I can’t for the life of me remember why I ever thought that was fun!
In the spring, the pond was where I’d catch my favorite little pollywogs (more on pollywogs and entrepreneurs in a future blog). In the summer, it became the most refreshing swimming hole. My dad would give us old tractor tire tubes to float on. I remember one summer when my sister, friends, and I made a “rule” that we couldn’t go swimming until the clock struck midnight. We’d stay out all night swimming—sometimes until my dad got up to milk cows in the morning. Don’t get me wrong, we still had chores to do, hay bales to toss, calves to feed, but back then, sleep was overrated, and a few winks could get us through.
That pond is where I developed my love and passion for fishing. I believe "Walter," the elusive granddaddy of all largemouth bass, still resides there.
Behind my house was The Hill—what seemed like a giant mountain to a little girl. In winter, it became my sledding paradise. As much as I complain about winter now, I didn’t always feel that way. When I was young, I never remembered feeling cold. I’d play outside in the snow until my homemade knitted mittens were so heavy I could barely lift my hands. I’d grab my sled and hike up that hill. To my little legs, that climb felt like it took three days and four nights. But when I reached the summit, the thrill of sitting on that sled and looking down was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Up the dirt road, about a quarter of a mile away, was the largest amusement park my little brain could fathom: The Barn. We’d walk into the milkhouse, where the milk was stored in a massive bulk tank. We dipped our fresh, unpasteurized, unhomogenized milk directly from that 1,500-gallon tank. I’ll admit, there were a few times I almost fell face-first into it. I remember one time, I pulled the stool up to dip the milk, but the tank was only half full. I leaned way over with a bottle in hand, and just as I was teetering, my Uncle Warren came walking in and grabbed my ankles. Had he not, I’d have been a soggy, milk-soaked mess!
On the other side of the milkhouse was the main barn, where the cows lived. Our farm was small, with maybe 50-75 cows. I had a favorite, Elke—a lovely, calm old girl who stood at the end of the barn. I’d love on her, sneak her extra hay and grain, and sometimes even climb on her to sit on her back. I’ll never forget the day the renderer came, and my dad was telling him which cows were going. Elke was on the list. I’m sure everyone was surprised when this little freckled-faced girl threw a tantrum and clung to that cow, crying and screaming. That evening, my father brought me Elke’s name tag as a consolation, and I hung it in my room as a tribute to the greatest cow in history. Funny how I can’t always remember why I walked into a room or what I need at the grocery store, but I remember every detail about Elke from when I was eight years old. Memories, huh?
Then there was the calf barn. I can’t tell you how many calves I bottle-fed or helped wean to a bucket in that barn. But I can tell you I often curled up and fell asleep in the hay, with puffy, teary eyes, next to a few little bull calves I knew would be headed to auction on Wednesday morning.
Above the barn was the hayloft which we called the haymow. We’d climb the ladder to get up there. In winter, when it was less full, my father would toss bale string around the hand-hewn beams to make us a swing with an old board or piece of wood. As we got older, we built our own “Tarzan” ropes and swung from mow to mow, built forts, and even had a basketball hoop in one of the mows. I can’t leave out the excitement of finding baby kittens nestled deep in bales of hay. You really don’t know what fear is until you stick your hand into a hole full of wild, untamed barn cats. I still have scars from the scratches, but oh, those little kittens were so cute! We made it a challenge to tame those wild beasts. The orange tabbies were always the meanest—and they were usually my favorite.
I could go on and on. I have so many more stories from my childhood on the farm, I wish I could share clips from my mind. It’s like the old-fashioned Viewfinder toy. I wish I could give you snapshots and tell you all the stories of catching frogs, having a pet fawn, or spending hours riding in the tractor with my dad. But I don’t think words can fully convey those experiences as well as they’re engraved in my memory.
To wrap up, many life lessons were learned on the farm. While they weren’t all fun, they’ve given me a love and respect for animals, a work ethic that’s hard to come by these days, an appreciation for nature, and a joy for the little things in life that are often overlooked. So yeah, lucky me!