March 11, 2014

As I sit here preparing to venture into the vast world of blogging, I can't help but think, "Where to start?" So, let's start at the very beginning. Well perhaps not the VERY beginning -- you would be bored to tears. So instead perhaps we should start with the obvious: Why is this City Girl on the Farm in the first place?

For those of you who know me personally, I am absolutely sure that you are shaking your heads and giggling uncontrollably at the whole concept. Who could blame you? After all, tee shirts and jeans have never been my forte'. For those of you who don't know me well enough to know why this seems so absurd, let me clue you in about my "previous life":

Until 4 years ago I had always lived in the city. Neighbors next door, 5 o'clock traffic, restaurants that were open all night, and the mall and at least 3 good coffee bars never more than 10 minutes away. It was life as I knew it and loved it. Need a friend who could trounce around the mall in 4-inch heels? Need a good road-rage rant when the bridge was backed up? Need to know that the round racks in each section at Von Maur are the unmarked sales (Heaven forbid they should be marked ... tacky, tacky!)? Well, I was your gal!

What was I NOT good for? Being outdoorsy, that's what.  Call me a girlie-girl, but in 3rd grade I refused to join the Girl Scouts because I thought the Brownie uniforms were ugly. What can I say ... it's one of my favorite colors now, but I didn't like brown back then. Oh, and I didn't like the concept of camping out either. I signed up for baton lessons instead -- sparkly costumes and a silver stick to twirl; yep, much more up my alley.  In 5th grade I threw the hissy-fit to end all hissy-fits because our class was going to Land Between the Lakes for a day and everyone was required to wear jeans.  Yep, it's true. I am sure my mother was ready to kill me in the middle of Sears and I can still remember her hissing, "Stop acting like a 3-year old. You can throw them away after the field trip."

Then there was the time I made my younger brother ride home holding his fishing pole out the car window because he had actually caught a fish on it and no way was that pole coming inside my car after being contaminated.  Yep, that was me. Girlie girl to the core and quite happy with it.

So what changed?  Well, I blame my husband.  Of course, I use the term "blame" very lightly. I'm sure there was also some "with age comes mellowing" involved in my evolution, but it is much more fun to just blame Dennis.  With Dennis, walks in the woods were kind of nice (as long as I had plenty of tick spray). Fishing was also not so bad. After all, I got to spend all day out in the boat and I didn't have to touch anything.  Yep, the outdoors wasn't quite so bad after all.

And then there was the motorcycle -- that sort of outdoors was suddenly a-okay, too. I found that I loved riding on the back of Dennis' Harley Road King Classic.  There are limits to how much one can evolve, though, and Dennis' constant question, "Wouldn't you like your own bike?" was always met with a very firm "No."  Why on earth would anyone even consider putting two wheels and a motor under someone who can hardly stay upright on a bicycle?

Then came the day that Dennis took me to visit his property in Missouri and I knew my City days were numbered.  Perhaps it was age, but all of a sudden I found myself loving the concept of a house in the country. It was quaint ... it was relaxing ... and  here 5 o'clock traffic simply meant that there might be 3 tractors passing through the town square instead of 2.  Yep, I could do this! Sign me on!

So, in 2009 Dennis retired from his job and we moved to our farm.  Now bear in mind that I use the term "farm" loosely. We do not grow crops or raise cattle, but we do have chickens.  Oh yes, the chickens ... a story unto themselves, which I will tell you all about tomorrow. <3