When I miss the Farm...

Last Saturday I was driving from Colorado Springs to Buena Vista, and I saw a herd of Holsteins grazing in a field beside the road - those beautiful black and white cows made me homesick. As I have been reading up on organic gardening and planning an urban plot, I am anticipating growing and harvesting my own vegetables with a thrill and delight that can only come from a place that I call home (and from the Glynn-Cieslak gene pool - some things we can't escape!)

There is a farm in Vantown, Michigan - Glynn Acres. My Grandmother was born there, and my Father spent his summers there when he was a boy. I love to hear Dad tell stories about the farm - I feel like I live every experience right along with him - milking the cows, preparing the 4H cattle for competition, birthing the calves, the barn dances in the hayloft, playing hide-and-go-seek in a million rows of corn. I never realized how much that place meant to me until I had a dream that it was gone. Now I like to think about it often, and when I do, I can almost be there...

The long gray barn that used to seem like a giant, contains as much home as the white bungalow farmhouse with the gray porch and wooden swing. The gray barn seems to go on forever, or at least it did when I was a little person. As I step through the barn door, I see the birthing pens to my right, and the milk room to my left. The inside walls are white washed and the afternoon sun pours through the western windows and makes the straw shine golden. I hear the click-click of the milking machine and it is like a song of security - it's consistent and never-changing, like a lullaby in my mind. The smell of fresh straw, raw milk, and manure, is the sweet aroma of home.

The new calves are all lined up in their stocks. Their large brown eyes and long lashes look up at me, and I marvel at how every baby of every species was made to be adored. I pet the little calf between his soft ears and rub my nose in the fur of his forehead. We feed the calves with giant baby bottles, filled with fresh milk. They suck it down eagerly.

With timidity I walk down the long stone isle in the center of the barn. Timid because when I was a little girl, I was always afraid of those large dark animals. The Holsteins line each side of that long isle, and even though I am afraid, I keep going, because I want to see my Uncle Mark.

When I think of Uncle Mark now, I see a plaid shirt, dark tanned skin, and hands that reveal passion for his work. I see him step out from behind one of those great black beauties to welcome me. He cannot stop to talk for long, because he has to finish milking before dinner. He talks as he works, every movement is completely natural for him. He was born for this. His voice is pure gentleness and his smile is the kindest I've ever known.

In the back of the barn, there is a bullpen. As a little person, I was terrified of those bulls. I remember peering through a whole in the wooden gate and seeing the outline of that great black monster. He did not have the white spots that the cows had, his body was firm and defined and he had a large ugly nose with huge nostrils. I remember Dad telling me to stay away from the pen because "Bulls are mean." I never went near it after that.

Outside the barn, there is a line of Holsteins standing by the fence, hoof-deep in manure. They are making that sound that my weeble-people barn used to make when I would open and close the plastic doors.

Just outside the barn door, my Uncle has placed a bowl of fresh milk for the kitties. They corral around the bowl, climbing over each other with clawless paws, to lap up that white sweetness with their tiny tongues. I watch one dive head-on into the bowl, only to find himself immersed in a milk bath.

The screen door slams behind me as I enter the breezeway. I immediately smell dinner in progress... sweet rolls and warm butter, baked spaghetti, pecan pie, and fresh lemonade. The table was always a spread of creamy, buttery, fried goodness. There's nothing in the world like eating on the farm - nothing compares to that cholesterol dream.

The bedroom on the first floor is where Grandma and Uncle Mark were born, and in the living room, they had witnessed their older siblings weddings. Outside the front door, across the porch, and down the steps, a willow tree shades the yard. It looks like a bridal veil, with it's branches reaching all the way down to the lawn. A short path leads from the porch steps, under the willow, to the county road, where Miller got hit.

Green has a permanent meaning in my mind: John Deere. Every time I see some Deere trinket, sign, or T-shirt, I hear my Grandpa's voice: "When are you coming out to the farm? Are you going to drive the tractor? I've got it all ready for you..." The image comes instantly - a 1946 Deere painted greener than the Irish Hills, and Grandpa leaning up against it, with a grin that takes up his whole face. His arms are brown and weathered from years of work in the fields, he has a faded tattoo of an American flag on his left forearm - a farmer till his last day, and king of my heart.

The first mountain I ever climbed was a silo... I am still climbing mountains.