Those of us who live in rural areas may have different experiences and cultures. But many of us have a special commonality, and that is the warmth, love, and values of family life.
I am so excited to bring on guest blogger, Katie Dallam-Pratt, to share one of her funny stories about farm life in Illinois. Katie blogs at “Rural Route 2 – the Life and Times of an Illinois Farm Girl.” She would love to have you drop by and visit her at http://illinoisfarmgirl.wordpress.com/.
A Farmer’s Daughter Does Not Make A Farmer’s Wife
My Farmer and I will celebrate 10 years of marriage this September. Yes, I know. Why would a farmer’s daughter think a September wedding was a good idea? My entire wedding party, including the groom, harvested beans the morning of our nuptials. In 10 years we’ve had two anniversary dinner dates because on those two days it was raining.
Those first months as My Farmer’s wife, partner, and co-builder of a new life were rough. We went from our wedding weekend back to the fields for several more weeks of long harvest days.
One beautiful fall evening, I came home from work (at the time I was working off the farm full-time) and decided to surprise My Farmer with dinner in the field.
Now having grown up a farmer’s daughter I felt rather prepared for life as a farmer’s wife. Although my mom worked off the farm and in spite of the crazy schedules of three active kids, she made our days flow effortlessly from morning to night. We shared three meals a day as a family, although not always around a dinner table, and always seemed to carve out time for silly adventures.
So, I figured I could recreate that home so vivid in my memories.
I called My Farmer and asked him where he was chiseling because I’d like to visit. He gave me careful instructions and feeling confident in my skills to navigate back country roads, I neglected to write down every last detail.
I don’t even remember what I made for dinner, but the picnic basket overflowed on the seat beside me.
Not quite fifteen minutes later I pulled into the field drive and watched the tractor and chisel crawl towards me, dust shimmering in the brilliant red of the sunset. The tractor drew up to the drive, slowed and turned, heading back down the field.
Dumbfounded, I sat waiting for him to stop. Thinking maybe he’d pull away a bit to let the dust settle before I pulled out this wonderful surprise dinner. But no. The tractor rolled on.
Furious, I picked up the radio and asked, “Why didn’t you stop?!”
“You aren’t here,” he responded, confused at my sharp tone.
“Yes, I am . . .” my voice faltered. Uh oh.
Turns out I was on the right road, just not the right field. The neighbor who almost ate My Farmer’s dinner that night still teases me 10 years later.
The detail of the story that I neglect to share, but everyone else remembers so well, is the color of the tractor. That neighbor drove red. My Farmer drives green.