Memories Are Made of These
Each summer, when I was a kid, my family made a trip from our home in Washington, DC to Culpeper, Virginia. It was the place my father had grown up and the home of relatives, that went by such names as Cousin Abby, Aunt Sal, and Cousin Nall.
I rode my first horse on one of those farms. I watched a chicken go from the barnyard to the frying pan within a half hour. I ate canned whole hog sausage, picked apples, milked my first (and last) cow, and stepped in a manure pile more than once. I sat on a big porch with fly paper hanging from the ceiling as I helped to string bushels of green beans in the summer heat. All those activities were so foreign to me as a city kid.
Ol’ MacDonald Had a Farm
This past weekend when friends visited from New York City, along with their four children, I relived some of my childhood farm adventures.
Since our place in Rolla is now more of a weekend getaway than a working farm, we took the visitors to a few local farms, where they could see and hold a variety of small animals