Farm Girl

The soft pastel hues of the fresh farm eggs are pleasant to my eyes. I have a friend who generously gives me eggs straight from her chickens.  Saturday morning is my favorite time to get up at my leisure, and as I inhale the warming aroma of coffee brewing, I scramble up a couple in the pan. Today’s eggshells were a lovely pale shade of green and a  light tan. Ah, the simple pleasures of a farm girl.

I’m saving my eggshells to mix with my soil for the summer garden. Growing vegetables is something farm girls do, and I think of myself as a farm girl. Truth be told, I was raised in the Burbs of South Florida.  However, my parents were Texans and my dad was definitely a country boy. Even though I was a city girl, the country was bred in my soul.  I remember as a little girl, going to the Davie Rodeo with my dad.  One year I had the cutest cowgirl vest and skirt.  It was red with white fringe and I had a hat and boots to match.  I felt like the rodeo queen!  As I reflect on that day, I probably looked more like the city girl I really was dressed up country.

One summer we were visiting kinfolk in the Texas panhandle. My dad, brother and I went to help a cousin round up cattle on his ranch. Now I had ridden a horse a time or two down a simple horse trail lead by an experienced rider. I liked horses. I liked the idea of horseback riding. But each time I saddled up on one of those beautiful creatures, I didn’t like it so much. But here I was sixteen years old, and I hadn’t accepted the fact that I was a city girl.Rounding up a few cattle sounded adventurous and something a true country girl would do. Well, you probably can guess where this is going.  First, my dad had to boost me up onto the giant animal, and then we started on our way out into the vast, dry, wilderness under a blazing Texas summer sun.  It wasn’t long before that dern horse started to gallop.  WHOA!  I have never gone faster than a very slow, steady walk while on a horse.  My dad and cousin were amused, while my brother laughed at my shrieks and shouts of “Whoa!” and “Slow down!”. But there was no turning back, so on we went to get the job done.  I did not particiipate in the actual “round up”, but sat atop my horse waiting for the torture to end. It seemed to take a life time to steer those cows back, and once we did make it back to the barn, I needed Dad to help me off.  By now, I was so very ready to be off as I was feeling pretty sore. But first, Dad had to take pictures.   The snapshot shows a look on my face that clearly screams, “Get me off this horse  NOW!” My dad and cousin were amused. My brother was trying to act like he had no aches and pains.

It is funny as I reflect on that day, that I still like the IDEA of horseback riding, but I think it’s best that I just enjoy the idea in my mind. I think I’ll explore my country side by driving out to my local dairy and buying fresh milk and maybe pet a cow or two while there.  I will piddle around with my vegetable garden and put up some of the produce I grow and enjoy the farm fresh eggs of pretty colors.  It really is time to accept that I am a city girl with a country heart, but I think I’ll still call myself a farm girl.

 

 

Advertisements

6 thoughts on “Farm Girl

  1. Congratulations on your first post! I love that you think you are a farm girl, or rather, a city girl with farm girl roots. Your lead paragraph drew me in. I would love to eat some freshly laid eggs in all sorts of shades. They would be happy eggs. Keep writing. I am curious what you come up with next. Thanks for the read.

    Like

  2. Your heart is big enough to hold a few descriptions. How you think of your self may change by the day and/or circumstances. Thanks for sharing your story.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s