I lived on a small working farm until I was six years old. It is one of my most treasured memories. There were so many things to do and explore in my small world.
Mom taught me my ABCs, my colors, and how to count long before I entered school. She applied for a library card in my name when I was four. I couldn’t read yet, but the picture books introduced me to ideas beyond the farm. By the time I started school, my education had already begun.
She also encouraged me with art projects. I remember fondly watching her mix flour and water together to make paste, something she had watched her own mother do for herself and her eight siblings.
I spent my days exploring the parts of the farm where I was allowed to roam. One of my favorite places was the barn. I can still smell the bales of fresh-cut hay. Dad turned the cows out into the pasture in the daytime, so I didn’t need to worry about getting stepped on by a cow.
Sometimes, Dad let me watch him milk the cows. We had several, so there was always a lot of milk. Dad brought some into the house for us, some went to the barn cats, and some went to the calves. He had a metal bucket with a nipple on it that he hung from the gate in the barn lot. The calves always emptied it. None of it went to waste.
I loved playing with the barn cats, too, especially the ones that let me tame them as kittens. I almost always had one that I’d named Nosey, but it wasn’t always the same cat.
The tame ones used to come up to the house. I carried them around and dressed them up in my doll clothes. There was always the problem of what to do with their tails. I solved that the same way I did in A Basket Full of Puppies. I put their tails through a leg hole along with one of their legs if the doll outfit had a pair of panties. They never objected and let me wrap them in doll blankets and push them around in my doll buggy. Occasionally one would jump out and I had to chase after it to get my doll clothes back.
Since our chickens were free-range, they often laid their eggs in the barn. Sometimes Mom sent me out with the little green basket she gave me to gather any eggs I could find. When I brought them into the house, Mom held them up to a lightbulb over the kitchen sink to make sure they were fresh. Dad had a stack of hay bales on the barn floor, and that’s where I usually found them.
There were so many sounds that I remember well. The cows mooing, pigs oinking, chickens clucking, an occasional woodpecker drilling for insects in one of the tall trees, and the call of the bobwhites.
Visiting the rabbits was always fun. They were so cute and fluffy. I especially adored the babies. I stood in front of their cages and watched them for long stretches of time. I could have watched them all afternoon.
I remember the blue morning glories Mom used to plant along the fence between the house and the empty chicken yard. They were so pretty. Mom and I both enjoyed them. I remember trying to smell them and the way the blooms wrapped around my nose, but they didn’t have much scent.
Wild roses grew in the ditch on the far side of the road that went past our house. I wasn’t supposed to cross it, but I did once to smell them. They were beautiful and smelled so good. But I learned the hard way that the stems had scores of tiny prickles growing all along them. I wasn’t tempted to cross the road to pick them after that.
Looking back, I realize the farm was my first classroom. Long before I ever sat behind a school desk, it had already begun teaching me about animals, nature, hard work, kindness, and paying attention to the world around me. I suppose I’ve been learning ever since.
