friday haiku

stealing rotten pears
to feed the donkey—today's
farm misdemeanor

sunny, 70s, no humidity

From park to quirky antique farm to our favorite local farm, we soaked up every bit of this glorious afternoon. This perfect, southern California weather only comes a couple times a year but, like a sweet baby dulls the memory of childbirth, somehow makes living in Chicago dreamy. While poor Liam was stuck in school, Elliott and I seized the day and drove west for some adventures.


We talked to horses.


And a dog.


And a donkey. (Or rather got back at the donkey for the last visit when he nipped a shoe.)

We had two picnics, including one for Liam's school that basically meant hanging out in the park with all our favorite neighbors. After which, we rode our bikes home.


And made a detour for ice cream.

Now, the windows are all wide open. My Corona bottle is empty. No one complained about going to bed. All in all a perfect day.

friday haiku

eggs and asparagus
talk to goats, pat the donkey
how we love our farm

farmer jay, farmer jeff, farmer pete and farmer andrew

I love farmers. Especially those who choose the profession late in life, after sowing their oats in the city, working in an office cubicle and waiting tables at the local Chili's. Probably because they are throwing everything to the wind and picking up a pitchfork without a clue as how to use it, they are endearing and I have a soft spot for them.

For as long as I can remember I have envisioned myself as a farm wife, harvesting crops, baking pies, hanging clothes on the line, running out to chase the chickens that flew the coop. Before I met my husband I was on the way to becoming one. If not the wife, at least the farmer.

I had spent weeks at a time as both farm sitter and writer in residence at a farm in Wisconsin cared for by city transplants, Jay and Donna. I ate up the 30 acres, well-used/art-studio barn, CSA garden, dreamy old farmhouse and company of artistic intellectuals that didn't know much about farming, but did it all the same. They grew food for 40 families, raised lambs and chickens who enjoyed an idyllic life before becoming dinner, ran an artist-in-residence program, hosted a stream of guests every weekend of the summer, hacked at giant thistle, fixed fences, fed a wood-burning furnace, and pieced together an unusual assortment of part-time jobs to pay the mortgage. They decorated their house in farm auction kitsch, watched obscure independent films on an 1970s TV and dreamed up ways to inject a rural agrarian landscape with art and culture. I wanted to be just like them.

Two years in row I farm sat for Jay and Donna during the coldest week of the winter. Wind chills were 20 below and I spent thirty minutes twice a day hacking the ice in the sheep's water trough and the rest of the thirty minute intervals throwing logs on the fire. It was bliss.

One night during a winter farm sitting stint, a truck drove up the long drive and parked. I hesitantly opened the back door for a big man in a cowboy hat. (The two big farm dogs barking at the stranger gave me some comfort, but there wouldn't have been much I could do in the face of real danger since none of the outside doors in the farmhouse actually locked.)

"Well, you're not Donna," bellowed the big man.

"No, I'm staying here, taking care of the farm while they're on vacation," I admitted, thinking it might have been wiser to say that I was a trained assassin and my boyfriend with the gun was in the other room.

But the big man smiled a big smile and stuck out his hand, "I'm neighbor Jeff," he said. "Mind if I come in and sit a spell?" I swear he really said that. How can you not just love farmers?

So I said sure and he came in and sat on a stool and shot the breeze for an hour while I made a fancy farm dinner for myself in the old farmhouse kitchen on kitschy mismatched dishes. There was no point to the visit other than just being neighborly. There was no rush to the preparation other than just to make something nice to eat. It was simple and easy and I was ready to trade my life for ice chopping and fire feeding and shooting the breeze right then and there.

This past Friday, ten years later, I met another farmer. This one raises cattle and sells his grass-fed beef through meet and greets at the homes of friends in suburbia. I instantly loved farmer Pete. I chatted with him about the challenge of farming 120 acres as one who came to farming late in life after leaving a law practice (no wonder I loved him!). I chatted with him about the rural landscape and how quickly cows birth their calves. I had forgotten how much I loved shooting the breeze with a farmer, how much I still longed for a farm life.

But my life took different turns and I'm in love with a British rocker and we live in about the most neighborly of neighborhoods one could imagine. I don't have a farm house or more than 1/4 acre, but we try to implement some of the finer points of farm life, like vegetable gardening, pie baking, thrift store shopping and clothes-line drying. No chickens yet, but some good friends have ventured there, with four hens in a coop in their backyard, and we are cheering them on. The chicken-raising suburban farm wife passes on her Mary Janes Farm magazines. Another friend goes to the flea market with me to support my love of kitsch and farmhouse linens. Another feeds my love of quilts and sewing and all things vintage. Another stops by with a bouquet of chamomile flowers from his yard that he thinks I might like to steep for tea and brings a couple pints of his latest home brew for farmer Andrew.

I still dream sometimes about living on a farm. But when I can get myself to sit a spell and take a look around, I realize that I have the life I've always wanted - the kids running in the yard, the laundry flapping in the breeze, the pie cooling on the counter, the neighbors coming over to shoot the breeze. The rolling hills, the grazing animals, the wildflower gardens out back...if I close my eyes, I can almost see them. And right now, that good enough for me.

farm time

Although the weather says differently here in Chicago, we know spring has arrived when the lambs are born. I say this as if it were our own farm at which said lambs arrived. But, alas, my farm girl dream is played out at the park-district-owned 1800s replica hobby farm. Still, the animals are real. Not to be wrestled, fed or touched, but well cared for and naturally born and bred. That's something in suburbia.

Before my boys came along, I spent a couple weeks each winter farm sitting for friends who own a small farm and CSA in Wisconsin. The last year I did this, they squeaked in a vacation right before the start of lambing season. It was my job not only to feed and water the sheep in subzero temps but to be on the lookout for wayward lambs. I trudged out to the barn three times a day to check in on those sheep, both eager and afraid for what I might find in their crib.

The thing I remember most about those weeks at the farm was how slowly the clock moved. I lived in every minute. Everything I did commanded attention - slogging on my boots, crunching down the lane, breathing in and out. But time never dragged. Every sense was fully engaged and yet totally at rest. A beautiful dichotomy.

I was alone on the farm. That certainly made the weeks-long meditation easier. But what made it possible is that I allowed myself to be fully present in the moment, watching the fire, chopping an onion, dragging a bale of hay out of the barn (to the immense pleasure of a pushy herd of bleating sheep). I never thought about what I wasn't doing, what I wished I was doing, what I should be doing instead. I just saw what was in front of me to do and I did it. I wonder how my life would look different if I lived this way now.

For one thing, I know I would be better at remembering, at seeing and listening. I would be calmer, more patient. My house would be emptier. My mind would be freer.

On the flipside, life is a little more complex than two weeks on someone else's farm. But I'm glad to have the memories, triggered every spring by a visit to see the newest local lambs. It reminds me that it's good to slow down, to listen to my boots crunching, the birds singing, the sheep bleating, my son laughing, if only for a few precious moments.

it takes a farm

While waiting for my son to finish gymnastics this afternoon, I overheard one of the moms talking to her friends. She was carrying on about how important she thinks it is to always and everywhere look your best. Even if you're running out for bagels on a Saturday morning, you should put on your makeup and a good-looking outfit. You never know who you might see, she reasoned. What if you bumped into an old high school boyfriend for heaven's sake?

I quickly gave myself a once over and figured I probably wouldn't rank particularly high in her "looking good" files. I had barely a trace of makeup and jeans that were long overdue for a wash. What a relief that I had remembered earings. Pearls, even.

I joke, but I am not opposed to looking nice. It would probably behoove me to try a little harder sometimes. But, truth is, I do not have a huge closet full of clothes and shoes. (Although, I do own a $200 pair of jeans. An uncharacteristic moment of insanity.) I rarely do more to pretty my face than whip out a mascara wand. But is that really what's needed for looking our best?

After gymnastics, we drove to our favorite local destination - Heritage Prairie Market and Farm. I get such a rush of joy and lightness when I step out of the car onto the gravel and see the chickens strutting through the zinnias and hear the goat babies bleating in their pen. I am nearly sure that in a beautiful previous life, a farm was my home.

After checking out the animal doings and drinking in every shade of green and gold, we hit the market for our staples. Inside, Liam was greeted by name by the shopkeeper. We chatted for a while about preschool and winter gardening and jewelry making and the funny paths our lives take. She never seemed rushed or ready to move on to something more important. And, as far as I could tell, she wasn't paying one iota of attention to how I looked. She, I noticed however, was makeupless and wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a cool enamel necklace she made. She was cute as a button.

On the way back to our car, we ran into the "farm wife," another makeupless, t-shirted woman who looks just like an Ivory soap girl. She could have easily and comfortably walked by without even saying hello as we were nearly at our car and she was on the path from house to store. But she waved hello and walked over to ask Liam if he'd said hey to the goats and to give Elliott a toe squeeze.

In that moment, I thought, this is it. This is what the gymnastics mom is looking for. Because as I soaked in the kindness, the slow pace, the genuineness, the happy squeals of my littlest farmer and the warm, golden sunlight, I felt quite sure that there in my well-worn jeans, unstyled hairdo and makeupless face, I looked my best. And if my old high school boyfriend was there on that farm, he definitely would have been groveling.

old mcdonald

Liam had his first morning of Farm Critter Camp at our farm today. He wasn't particularly excited about the drawing time or the snack (goat milk yogurt) but brightened when he told us about shoveling the goat poop. Maybe there's some farmer in the kid. He is part Mennonite, and he chose the outfit himself.

Tomorrow the campers take care of the chickens. Boy, would Elliott be bummed if he had any idea what his brother is doing every morning this week. This boy is the real Old McDonald.

a visit to our farm

Lately we've been stopping by our favorite farm store Heritage Prairie Market at least twice a week. We come to buy local dairy products, just-picked produce and the occasional hand-crafted gift. We come to pet the dog, chase the cats and say hi at the farm animals. We come to soak in the sunlight, get kissed by the wind and breathe in the musty, earthy scent of growing things.


Today we got to peek at the chicks that will soon be egg-laying hens. Our resident animal lover probably would have stuffed this sweet peeper into his mouth given the chance. A poke at the chick's downy head was all the farmer allowed Elliott, but he loved every second of it.


After buying some rhubarb and aspargus, milk and eggs, we slid into our favorite adirondack chair for a late afternoon breather. I could never get Elliott to look at the camera because the cat had his full attention. Liam, however, was all about lounging. I was so happy to be away from work and sickness (been a lot of both around here lately) that I considered pitching a tent and calling it a day. Instead we waved goodbye and had eggs and asparagus for dinner, guzzling down the milk so we'll have a good reason to go back soon.