Accidental Farm

When we bought 24 acres just outside our home town a year ago, we just wanted a little bit of land: space to spread out, somewhere for the kids to run and have something to do outdoors. The place was a working horse ranch 35 years ago, but those days are long past. When we bought it, it was an unfenced rolling pasture with a barn, a few nice outbuildings, and a well-maintained 1979 split-level in need of some updates. We didn’t call it a farm, and certainly didn’t think of ourselves as farmers.

That lasted about a month: we moved in early February, and by March I was using the word “farm” instead of “land”. Now we’re raising our second set of Spring chicks and we’re in our second year of (modest) Spring planting. I have more plans for the place than time to do them. Brandy has learned to keep a vegetable garden alive long enough to actually eat them, and I’ve learned to build fences and repair a tractor (because I broke it…). The animals outnumber the humans.

I don’t think of myself as a farmer, not really. But I can imagine the day when I might, and I certainly wouldn’t have expected that a year ago.