Growing up on a farm

I have often been asked what It was like growing up on a farm and I rarely give a comprehensive answer, despite examining almost every other thing that I have experienced in my life. The main reason for this (though there are many others that I will not go into at this time) is, that is where I grew up. I had little else to compare it to. To me it could have been the best or worst life but I did not know; it was simply the life that I had. Tonight, however, I read a poem written by a talented fellow that resides in the southern states of America talking of the heat, joy and camaraderie of harvesting their crop of watermelons and it made me think of the differences.

I grew up on farm but in chilly, northern climes where we could not grow such sweet things as watermelons. The writers poem helped me imagine the warmth, dry dirt and the joy of reaping. When my memory reminds me of the hail that the wind drove into your face making it red raw as I stood behind the plow, My father driving the tractor, me ensuring the plow kept level and straight. The raucous call of the gulls overhead and behind searching for worms and leather-jackets once hidden beneath the sod, now revealed. The mud that was our constant companion; clinging to boots, trousers and hands, which even when dried filled our world as it flaked off onto floors carpets and rugs. We also had the joy of reaping, though our fruits were rarely sweet. Bitter small apples, cabbages, turnips, potatoes. The carnage, the slaughter of sheep and cow for the, long siege, of winter was never enjoyable. Strangely looking back I enjoyed it in an odd way. Perhaps we try to persuade our minds that it was not all bad or terrible, perhaps we forget the sting of the hail upon our faces, the biting, bitter cold, the all pervasive mud and just focus upon the good things. The sun upon our faces, the warmth of summer, the beauty and history of the land that lies around us, or that the weather may be better tomorrow. I suspect however, that I hold the answer in my head, to why I look back upon those days with fondness and that was my escape from them when reading. Hail on my face, eyelids drawn down to protect them from the blistering, battering sting and red faced return home to an open fire and the imaginings of Asimov, Moorcock, Heinlein or what ever other literary luminary that took my fancy that week, month or year. Perhaps the hardship (though we did not have it hard compared to many) was simply a prompt to tempt me into other worlds and ideas that seemed better than my own existence where I could live vicariously as "Elric of Melnibone", Tom Sawyer, Jarry O' Connell, Hazel, A dreaming child, Giskard and so many others.

It is any surprise that I wished to write, to inhabit other worlds with characters and ideas and let others live a life through them that is perhaps denied to them at the time.

I have lived a thousand lives, of which my own is only a small part.