It was always my greatest ambition to be a farmer. I wanted to own one of every kind of animal and have huge fields filled with produce and grain. I wanted to own horses and cattle. I wanted a milk cow named Bossy and a goat named Daisy. I also wanted to own a horse ranch up in the mountains with thousands of acres around me and wide open spaces. I wanted to wake up every morning, walk outside in my pajamas and spread my arms and embrace the wide world.
I do not, as it winds up, live on a farm. When I walk outside in the morning in my pajamas, I am greeted by the sweet sound of the nearby freeway and the musical notes of neighbors mowing lawns. I am greeted by the tantalizing aroma of neighbors cooking a better breakfast than I’m going to cook.
In spite of its many imperfections, I have managed to create a close replica of farm life. When we moved into our home thirteen years ago, our first priority was to get fruit trees into the ground. The next priority was to wage war with the gophers and plant a large, productive garden. This was all followed by more trees, more gardens, raspberries, strawberries, grape vines and four hens. Here we are, thirteen years later and anyone who comes to my house between mid July and the end of August, is plied with peaches, plums, nectarines, green beans, chard and whatever else is producing beyond our capacity to can, freeze, dehydrate and jam.
During these hot summer months we enjoy all the bounties of farm life, minus Bossy and Daisy.