During the hot summer months, when we conserved money by turning on every fan in the house and keeping the air conditioning unit off, the screen door slammed shut multiple times an hour.  There was always activity.

I was blessed to have not just one, but both parents at home when I was growing up.  My dad farmed; my mom did everything under the sun.  There are six of us kids.  There were oodles of cats, a dog, a pony, and the lingering scent of pigs everywhere.  Freshly mown grass was pungent in the summer evenings as my parents always, always kept a beautiful lawn and clean cut farm.  If there was trash, it was carefully tucked away behind the buildings where no one would see it.  The evenings ended with showers, towels wrapped on top of our heads turban-style, and footsteps up and down the very narrow stairs to the second floor where our bedrooms were.

“Good night, Emily.”

“‘Night, Dad.  ‘Night, Mom.  I love you.”

“We love you too.”

So ended one day.  Sweating under our sheets, we dreamt and we waited for the next day to start.  The memories of the farm, of growing up.  It’s a sweet nibble of emotions that I tuck away carefully and reserve only for times like this; times when I want to remember and cherish how blessed I was, how blessed I am.  Times like this when my elaborate dreams of growing up in the city and being rich and famous all fade away into the truth of how much more I really have.  Indeed, I am blessed to have been born into just the family I was born into on a farm in a little, rural Iowa town.

I still don’t love the pig stench, but it’s all part of the experience, I guess.  Slop on your rubber galoshes, folks.  You don’t stay clean on a farm.