It was not until I reached college that I understood my childhood was one that many could only dream of. I lived in that picture, there is a windmill just beyond what the lens caught, and one year when the snow was spectacularly deep, we went sledding for hours on a tractor tire inner tube…We rode horses, we drove tractors, played cap-ball in the shop, played army, climbed all the buildings and built bazooka guns out of oil cans…
Christmas’s, 4th of July’s, Memorial Days, Thanksgivings… were spent at my grandparents house there, not 10 miles from my own…I was influenced by hard work, dirt, wheat dust, mud, snow, tractors, combines, gardens, canning food, sewing, horses, cousins, church pot lucks, two sets of grandparents within 10 miles; good old small town farm living…
I thought my life was boring, uneventful, and I longed for something different…I left a long time ago, to find my own identity, to do what my ancestors did, leave home and go make a new one…
I ended up 3000 miles from home to create my own…
I will go back there this summer, where my brother still farms, let my daughter experience the wheat harvest, smell the familiar smells, feel the ghost of self…feel grounded again…
I love my life, but only because of the roots of home…
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