The Farmer's daughter's daughter's sons.

When I was growing up, we frequently rode in the backs of trucks, let our dog roam without a leash, never carried a doggie bag (the kind you use to clean up, not the left-overs you pack home).  In fact, I apologize to any (all) of our neighbors who may have accidentally stepped in it.  We didn't wear seat belts, sucked on rocks because they just taste so good (that's right, I said taste, not tasted).  We had weeds in our back yard because it touched a big rocky field anyway.  We had weeds in the front yard because there was a big stretch between the edge of the grass and the edge of the road where a sidewalk would normally go.  I had the advantage of having both parents grow up on the farm, so we had our own half-acre mini-farm with chickens, a dog, puppies, too many cats, too many kittens, and a rabbit.  And a goat corral that had no goats, but has now had the good fortune of being turned into a horse corral.

My own kids have the misfortune of growing up with no dogs, a cranky, sterile house-cat, no rabbits, no chickens.  They do have weeds, of course.  But this last weekend we were able to spend a few days at the farm with my Grandpa and Grandma, and my children, thanks to my Grandpa's brother, Uncle Bert, were able to step out of an uptight lifestyle and ride the dusty dirt roads with the wind in their hair and bugs in their teeth, seat belt-less and free.  They picked corn from the cornfields, played with puppies, splashed in the flooded lawn, and to top it off, let loose on a go-cart. 

Uncle Bert

Notice Isaac and Ryan with their hands wrapped around the hot wire.  Needless to say, I wasn't there at the

time.

Grandpa Shurtz with the banjo

Jeff and I also took a spin on the go-cart.  I can tell that we are officially city people because on our little cruise, we were so fixated on the old, rusty car graveyard that we didn't see a giant mud-puddle in the dirt road until the last second, swerved into the neighbor's flooded lawn to avoid it, spraying water all over us and digging up their lawn, and then swerved back onto the road in time to plow right through a hot wire set up to keep the cows in.  Uncle Bert's grandsons were very gracious about the whole thing.  Especially since it was their go-cart and they were the ones who would have to fix the line and probably explain to the neighbors about their lawn. 

But despite our little mishap, it was so refreshing to go back to the farm.  I hope that my kids have the chance to go back often to see great-grandparents and get exposure to the true farm life.  But at least they'll always have the half-acre mini-farm.