Farm Girl Wannabe

Kim and I on a tractor.

Yesterday, my friend Kim and I had the privilege of touring the Knutson farm in Centerville, SD.  We wore hats, took pictures in tractors, climbed grain bins, and drove without seatbelts down a gravel road.  All in all, a wonderful – yet brief – glimpse at country living.

For me, this quickly brought back memories of growing up in Lynden, a small town in Northwest Washington full of Romeo-wearing farmers.

When I was younger, my dad owned a dairy farm with three of his brothers – The DeWaard Dairy.  In all honesty, I was never much of a farm girl.  I own a pair of Romeos and Ariat boots, as well as a cowboy hat, not that this counts for much.  But I do have a few farming memories that will always hold a special place in my heart.

Chopping corn

When I was even younger than I can remember, I began riding with my dad in his silage truck while he and my Uncle Terry were chopping grass or corn.  We called this “filling silo,” despite the fact that they were filling up a bunker, not a silo, but the name was passed down from years gone by when they really did fill up a silo. 

L to R: Renae, Allison, Erica,
and Dad in the truck.

His first truck had a long bench seat, so sometimes my sisters and I would all ride at once.  But other times it was just the two of us.  While I do not remember the origins of this tradition, I would always tell my Uncle Terry jokes/riddles over the CB radio, and he would tell me more in return.  Sometimes when we drove up beside his tractor after a trip to the bunker, my Uncle Terry would pretend to be sleeping, to which I would readily respond, “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” over the CB.

Many days I would ride for hours upon hours, but on one occasion in particular, this led to a unique situation.  I was riding with my dad after kindergarten one day because my mom was at work.  Being young, I had to go to the bathroom and couldn't hold it for much longer.  While there is a bathroom at the farm, I have never seen it, as I was strictly forbidden: I was a girl, and it was simply too dirty for my innocent eyes to see. 

This created quite the predicament.

My dad came up with the quickest solution he could:  I would simply have to sit on one of the tires outside the bunker and pee while he kept me from falling in.  Sometimes I wish I had somehow blocked this memory out of my mind, but it is still there, prominent as ever.  At least it makes quite the story.

Years later, my dad had to get a new silage truck, but this one only contained a seat for the driver and one passenger.  However, I still got to spend plenty of quality time with my dad, drinking lots of green Gatorade and eating Pringles.

Once or twice I got to ride on a tractor with my dad in early spring when he was discing, but somehow that did not hold quite the same glamour as filling silo: it was a bumpy ride on a very small seat and after several hours, one’s backside began to be in rather a lot of pain.

Two sleds connected, about to go
down.

My husband tends to laugh at me for this next memory, but it is as special as any other.  On the rare occasion when we actually received enough snow to cover all the grass and go sledding, my sisters and I headed to the farm.  We walked behind the barn and beside the woods until we came to the back of the manure pit – the absolute perfect place for sledding!  Now, just so everyone understands, we did not sled into the manure pit; we slid down the outside of the pit and out into the field.  We slid down, walked up, slid down, and walked up until my dad was ready to go home after finishing his farm chores.

This is not our field, but these are
similar to our sprinklers.

My last memory took place for several summers when I was in high school.  It was my dad’s job to move all of the irrigation pipes every morning and evening, and I often went along to help.  I would start at the top of the field and go down the line unhooking all of the pipes.  On my way back up, I would lift up one end of the pipe to drain out the water, thus making it easier to carry.  In the meantime, my dad began at the top of the field carrying the pipes to their new destination a little ways down the line.  We met in the middle, and I began helping him carry the pipes.  We stuck the plug in the end, walked back up the field, and turned the water back on, quickly glancing to make sure all the sprinklers were working properly before moving on to the second field.

Sometimes this moving of pipes resulted in some strange behavior, mostly on my end.  The fields were next to a fairly busy road; and I found great pleasure in lying down on my back in the deep grass, sticking my boot-clad feet high in the air and “waving” at the people driving by.  Don’t knock it until you try it: it is quite a hoot. 

P.S. “Did you know that sunsets look much prettier from upside down?”

I miss being a “farm girl,” at least as much of one as I ever was.  I suppose I never had to do any of the hard and dirty work, which may be why I have such an idealistic picture of the whole thing. 

But I would give anything to wake up at dawn and haul those sopping wet pipes across a field or fill silo with my dad just one more time…