BMancwtw Farming, Saturday, February 10, 1996
I Never Cared About This Stuff When I Was A Kid
She was off to the city to make a new life
for herself — a sophisticated one one
without manure shoveling, endless garden
weeding, and dirty clothes stained from
farm chores.
She succeeded . First in the business
world and than as a registered nurse in the
big city . But as the degrees, awards, and
pretty things accumulated, a funny thing
happened a yearning for the
farm, , . .
In her own words, Janet Golden writes
this tribute in honor of herfather, William
K, Jacob of Campbell Hall, New York.
JANET GOLDEN
Special To Lancaster Farming
PHILADELPHIA I’ve come to recognize the puz
zled look. It’s usually followed by “Why do you want to
know? You never cared about this stuff when you were a
kid.”
I’ll smile and prod him along with “Yeah, well things
were different then." He’ll stare off onto the fields as if to
recapture a lost moment and will then satisfy my curiosity
with the proper response. The answer usually involves
anything from animal breeding to John Deere tractors to
his beloved and often cursed sheep. But whatever the ques
tion may be, it never ceases to amaze him that I now have
an unquenchable desire to learn all that I can about farm
ing.
It’s true that I didn’t care about farming as a kid. It was
uncool to be a farm kid back then. I wanted to fit in with the
town kids you know go to football games, school
dances, and pep rallies. Weeding the garden, feeding the
animals and shoveling manure were not a part of the so
phisticated image that I wanted to portray.
And portray it I never did. Friends in college were often
imazed that I grew up on a farm. “You don’t look like a
farm girl,” they’d reply. While annoyed by their stereo
typical ideas of just how a farm girl was supposed to look, I
was secretly pleased that I didn’t pass for the Green Acres
type. I worked hard at becoming a modem woman. I ma
triculated from a competitive university, headed for the big
city and fulfilled my dream of becoming the All-American
bus! ness woman. I had a comfy desk job, a sports car and a
wardrobe full of stylish suits.
Yet, as the years passed and the allure of pretty things
and empty accomplishments grew dim, I found myself be
ing drawn back to our farm. The yearning was gradual at
first, but soon, like a salmon that instinctually returns to its
birthplace, the time came when I often needed to return
home.
At first, I didn’t recognize that I was making more trips
home. In fact, it was my husband who first noticed. He’d
come to predict just when we would need to visit the farm.
“You’re different there,” he would say, “You’re as care
free as a child.”
“Don’t be silly,” I’d say, “What difference could that old
farm make?” But I knew he was right. I was different there.
1 didn’t feel so odd and alone on the farm. And slowly I
came to understand what the difference was.
Janet Golden finds ths nssd to return more and more to tha family farm where aha
has fond memories of growing up with her tether William Jacob and her mother, who
Is now deceased.
I realized that picking beans reminded
me of steamy afternoons spent with my
mother. We used to pass the hours canning,
laughing, and talking about anything that
popped into our heads. I remembered how
good it felt just to be with her.
I understood that baling hay wasn’t just a
sweaty farm chore. It was a family bonding
together, determined to bring in the hay be
fore threatening rain clouds destroyed all of
our hard work. Afterwards, there was a
glorious sense of togetherness, as we sat
around drinking lemonade and admiring
our accomplishment.
Even the daily farm chores meant the
guarantee that things would be the same to-
morrow that the farm would be there,
my family would be there and the world
was a sane and happy place.
There’s also an innocence I abandoned
when I left our farm. The innocence we on
ly have as children. The innocence that
doesn’t know the agony of a mother’s
death, the ache of loneliness from a family
spread miles apart or the pain of watching
familiar farms being bulldozed and re
placed with fancy homes and swimming
pools.
But as the years pass by, and I take in all
that I can about farming I realize that I’ll
never be able to replace those memories.
No amount of farming will bring back
those old warm feelings. Perhaps it’s a
good thing that I’ve come to understand
that. I know I could never make it as a farm
er. After all, I never could tell the difference
between a crop of alfalfa and a crop of rye
grass. No, for me it’s deeper than just the
land, the bam or the animals. To me, farm
ing will always represent the sweetness that
life should hold.
But maybe wc all have farms of our own.
Maybe we all have a place where it’s OK to
get dirty, to watch nature unfold, to be
thankful for another day. Yet in the mean
time, I’ll keep asking my father more ques
tions about fanning. And he’ll continue to
look puzzled and pretend to wonder why I
ask so many questions.