The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But what if it’s a killer storm? And the wind is screaming? Some apples must fall in severe thunderstorms. The good storms, the loud storms, the ones with the wind howling and pushing everything around, the rain dropping with such force that it stings the skin. My favorite kind of storm. A powerful gust of dust and debris might wind up like a baseball pitcher on the mound, drawing and swirling designs in the grass, only to let loose like a star batter and connect with that apple and knock it clear out of the park. Maybe the apple rolls down the hill. So fast, it looks like it is running. So fast, it would trip if it had feet. Tumbling, rolling on to a final, mucky sliding stop.
Yes. I think that’s what happens to some apples.
I’ve been knee-deep in farm muck lately. It’s just as glamorous as it sounds, too. It’s been a blast. The kids and I have hatched out some of our chickens’ eggs. Carried water. Cared for growing chicks. Mixed feed. Brushed and groomed. We have been entertained by the ducks and goofy geese. Laughed at the silly turkeys, especially the baby tom who likes to strut around. We’ve chased escaping goats more times than I can count. We even helped our dairy cow, Six, deliver her first calf…hands on. He was massive and it was a very difficult birth, but that’s a story for another time.
I feel so differently about food now. Particularly, meat and dairy products. Where it comes from, sure. What it eats. Living this life has reinforced my belief that kindness really matters. Happy family, matters. Happy animals, matters. Sunshine and fresh air and plants and water and plain old hard work, matters.
Oh, and babies. The babies! Doesn’t matter if they’re baby goats, goslings, chicks, calves, kittens, horses, bunnies, whatever. A foal is due out here in little over a month. CAN’T WAIT. Babies are just the best.
Someone told me the other day that she was a third generation farmgirl. It made me smile, and it got me thinking. Both my grandmothers were farmgirls. My mother grew up on a farm. Great grandparents farmed. My grandpa’s farm was originally homestead by his grandpa. Farming is written all over my family tree. I tend to think of myself as a city girl who was country-fied. I didn’t grow up on a farm. Never lived on a ranch. I thought longhorns were born with horns, even small ones, for the longest time – when we were still basically newlyweds, my husband quickly set me straight. Not my brightest moment. One of his favorites though, undoubtedly. But yeah. I guess I’m a farmgirl with multiple generations of “farmgirl” running through me. It only took me a few decades to figure it out.
I also have Bohemian blood, which Mr. Glutenvygirl says explains a whole lot. (He’s probably right.)
The animals. They’re my favorites. I adore them all. I’m thankful for them.
Sometimes, an apple falls near the tree. But maybe sometimes, it takes a trip around, sees some sights, travels a bit. Then, it climbs back up that hill to get closer to that tree. Maybe it brings some new ideas this time, loads of inexperience, and totes along a deep thirst for knowledge. Mindfully choosing what should have probably been obvious all along.
The soil seems more like home there. And the view, priceless. All along.