Farmers wives are privy to a lot of little-known secrets of the agricultural industry. We could tell you how much of a man’s self worth is wrapped up in the state of his fields and the color of his tractors (ours are green, except for the Ford that was my husband’s great grandfather’s). We could…
“What’s the forecast looking like?” my farmer husband asked the moment he walked in the door. I checked it. Again. It was still saying rain. And we still had wet hay on the ground. It’s the same every fall. It’s time for a third cutting of alfalfa and we need a week of good weather…
Dear Son, You’re two years old and getting so big as you remind us so often. Everything is big to you. You want it big and you want more of it. Big tractors, big bulls, more hay bales. It’s a big world for our little farmer. You might play with toy baby bulls, but if…
It feels like we’re jumping into the busy season with both feet. All except for Mom–she’s not doing anything with both feet at the moment. My mother-in-law broke her ankle on Tuesday. And her fall threw us all into a bit of confusion, as we rearrange schedules and plan for a summer without the help…
On the farm, the fourth of July means farmer’s market and baling the grass hay. It means chopping up cabbage for pico de gallo salsa while listening to YouTube playlists of patriotic Country music (since the radio wasn’t playing enough of the good ones). It means a bring-your-own-beef barbecue with a few friends after the…
Dear Ruth and Mary, You may be farmer’s daughters, but you’re still little girls. And when the rain came yesterday afternoon, you shouted, “Yay! Rain for Daddy’s fields!” You are always ready to welcome everything as a gift. Even if it’s rain on Daddy’s hay that was almost dry enough to bale. I stopped your…
If I had all afternoon, I’d get that box of letters down and find it. The alfalfa would probably fall out of the envelope, just as it did that first time I opened it. And I’d get lost in re-reading his letters… I think it was the spring before we got married. My farmer sent…
I listened to it as I fell asleep last night. And each time I woke up, it was still coming down. The gentle thud of each drop on the rooftop was music to my ears, lulling the little ones to sleep, helping my farmer hubby rest a bit more easily. The girls had cried on…
My maternal grandfather’s birthday is today. It seemed a fitting time to share this piece I wrote ten years ago for a college writing class. Happy Birthday, Papa! Thanks for your example and all the memories. I love you. Stepping lightly over the hot wire fence alongside my cousin Melissa, I recall the day not…
Last week, I planted miracles in the ground. Racing the coming thunderstorm, I spaded the earth and pushed them into the holes. With one eye on the lightning streaking through the black clouds, I covered them quickly, knowing the rain would soon do the rest. Little bits of dried up nothing. Barely a wilted green…
I’m a farmer’s wife. Our days are anything but predictable. He might be home at 11:45 a.m. ready for lunch. But some days, it’s 3 p.m. And when I have dinner ready early, he’s late and unable to call. When I assume he won’t be home until 15 or 20 minutes until after he could…
The thing I love about aprons is that they are so practical. I mean, what is an apron for, but to get soiled—and in so doing protect what you’re wearing underneath? “Go and make yourself tidy. Your hands are dirty, your apron soiled, and your hair looks as if it hadn’t been combed for a…
The End.
The End.
