I grew up on a dairy farm, the youngest of six kids. Even though I am well into my 40s, my mother still refers to me as “the caboose.” (And I still roll my eyes.) My birth order position insulated me from some of the harsher chores, something my older siblings point out from time to time. So while I can claim the title of “farm kid,” I have to admit that I never milked cows before I had to get on the bus for school. I occasionally baled hay, popping the clutch on hillsides with regularity and sending my brother flying off the back of the wagon into the field. (I was not a particularly skilled tractor driver.)
As a teen, living on the farm was a burden. We were too far from town, I never knew what was... Continue Reading
