TiltingWindmillsFarm
Chillin' with the herd
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2022
- Messages
- 11
- Reaction score
- 10
- Points
- 28
***TRIGGER WARNINGS***
There is something romantic about homesteading... something nostalgic about the idea of stepping down off one's porch to scatter palmfuls of grain to over-eager chickens. Even to those with no history or experience with farm animals, there seems to be an innate drawing to this way of life. We create fantasies, we re-imagine a childhood holding tight to floral apron strings, of sitting on kitchen counters as freshly picked tomatoes plop into mason jars, of wooden cutting boards recently dusted with baking flower, of licking the last bits of batter from the mixing bowl. These images cause such a feeling of hearth and home that backyard farming has increased exponentially in the last decade.
And homesteading is not limited to just rural areas. More and more suburbanites are farming -- as is evidenced by their endless array of youtube videos. There are hundreds of homesteading books, magazine articles and news stories. Big box farming stores have moved into every neighborhood, right to Starbucks and Target. Towns proudly declare themselves "right to farm" communities; wearing the title like a badge of honor. Even cities and colleges are accepting Backyard farming as a new call to action and creating their own urban agriculture programs. In fact, I recently read that over 20% of the world's food is now grown in cities.
Growing up with horses, sheep, ducks, rabbits, and pigs, you might presume, correctly even, that my pull toward backyard farming was particularly strong. And while farming was the destination, looking back, I was equally motivated by the journey; of walking away from a distinguished yet exhausting career. My daydreams were uniquely fixated on my neighbors, people I barely knew even after living decades in the same house. People I waved to on my way to work or when returning home. People whose names I did not know, instead referring to them by their kids, their dogs, or by the car they drove.
How could I be surrounded by so many people and yet feel so isolated and alone?
As I sat at work, my daydreams were of laundry drying on a long, linear clothesline. The line had to be attached to wooden posts or maybe a corner of the house on one side; my fantasy absolutely did not want include of those square aluminum drying umbrellas. It had to be a real clothes line. Crisp white towels were anchored to a cotton rope with wooden clothespins. They had to be the wooden ones - and they had to look used; not dirty but not sparkly new like right out of the package.
And the laundry waved gently on a late spring breeze, but in slow motion- like an action sequence in Jon Woo movie. I was desperate to bury my face in those towels and gluttonously devour the smell that only clothes dried outside in the sun have. The only smell I ever coveted more was the scent of my children as a newborns.
My desire for sun dried towels was almost primal.
I wanted pies cooling on my windowsill. I wanted a garden with a crooked gate and a farmers' sink in my kitchen. I wanted a homeschool classroom in the dining room with a long, table made of reclaimed wood. And I was desperate to connect with my neighbors.
For some reason, I saw my neighbors as an integral part to my farming plans. Or maybe I just wanted to be integral to their lives. Regardless, these proximate strangers were critical to my fantasy. I had little doubt I would soon be passing fresh eggs and goats’ milk over my backyard fence. I could already imagine the squeals of delight from the recipients of my homemade butter and cheese --and of course, for the holidays I would give out the soaps and jellies I had made.
Yes, I could become the most beloved resident on our street.
*** Next Posting(s) April 30th
There is something romantic about homesteading... something nostalgic about the idea of stepping down off one's porch to scatter palmfuls of grain to over-eager chickens. Even to those with no history or experience with farm animals, there seems to be an innate drawing to this way of life. We create fantasies, we re-imagine a childhood holding tight to floral apron strings, of sitting on kitchen counters as freshly picked tomatoes plop into mason jars, of wooden cutting boards recently dusted with baking flower, of licking the last bits of batter from the mixing bowl. These images cause such a feeling of hearth and home that backyard farming has increased exponentially in the last decade.
And homesteading is not limited to just rural areas. More and more suburbanites are farming -- as is evidenced by their endless array of youtube videos. There are hundreds of homesteading books, magazine articles and news stories. Big box farming stores have moved into every neighborhood, right to Starbucks and Target. Towns proudly declare themselves "right to farm" communities; wearing the title like a badge of honor. Even cities and colleges are accepting Backyard farming as a new call to action and creating their own urban agriculture programs. In fact, I recently read that over 20% of the world's food is now grown in cities.
Growing up with horses, sheep, ducks, rabbits, and pigs, you might presume, correctly even, that my pull toward backyard farming was particularly strong. And while farming was the destination, looking back, I was equally motivated by the journey; of walking away from a distinguished yet exhausting career. My daydreams were uniquely fixated on my neighbors, people I barely knew even after living decades in the same house. People I waved to on my way to work or when returning home. People whose names I did not know, instead referring to them by their kids, their dogs, or by the car they drove.
How could I be surrounded by so many people and yet feel so isolated and alone?
As I sat at work, my daydreams were of laundry drying on a long, linear clothesline. The line had to be attached to wooden posts or maybe a corner of the house on one side; my fantasy absolutely did not want include of those square aluminum drying umbrellas. It had to be a real clothes line. Crisp white towels were anchored to a cotton rope with wooden clothespins. They had to be the wooden ones - and they had to look used; not dirty but not sparkly new like right out of the package.
And the laundry waved gently on a late spring breeze, but in slow motion- like an action sequence in Jon Woo movie. I was desperate to bury my face in those towels and gluttonously devour the smell that only clothes dried outside in the sun have. The only smell I ever coveted more was the scent of my children as a newborns.
My desire for sun dried towels was almost primal.
I wanted pies cooling on my windowsill. I wanted a garden with a crooked gate and a farmers' sink in my kitchen. I wanted a homeschool classroom in the dining room with a long, table made of reclaimed wood. And I was desperate to connect with my neighbors.
For some reason, I saw my neighbors as an integral part to my farming plans. Or maybe I just wanted to be integral to their lives. Regardless, these proximate strangers were critical to my fantasy. I had little doubt I would soon be passing fresh eggs and goats’ milk over my backyard fence. I could already imagine the squeals of delight from the recipients of my homemade butter and cheese --and of course, for the holidays I would give out the soaps and jellies I had made.
Yes, I could become the most beloved resident on our street.
*** Next Posting(s) April 30th