making (farm) friends

When we came to this place, our intention was to create a simple little farm where our show horses could retire and live out the rest of their days grazing on green acres — it was our precious Merlin who originally inspired that dream. But what we didn’t anticipate (well, let’s just say I didn’t anticipate; ever-practical Mike, of course, knew better) was how long it would take us to get the property ready for horses again. Restoring the barn, seeding pastures and building new fencing alone took us two years. And during that time I went searching for some farm friends — people we could go to for advice and support…neighbors, vets, a great farrier, hay and shavings suppliers, riding buddies and others. Here we are today, almost five years later, and all the puzzle pieces have come together to form a beautiful picture of country life and friendship. We met Michelle, a young horse whisperer, who’s become one of the most special people in our lives; Scott, the country doctor who used to practice equine medicine in metro Atlanta, though we had never met, and now has a thriving practice in Alabama; Danny, our farrier, who tends to all the horses’ feet, most especially Merlin’s…he made our most special horse more comfortable with his old racing injuries and prolonged his life; Randy, who despite his policy of only delivering full truckloads of shavings to local farms, made concessions and now delivers half-loads to us due to our small barn’s storage (he most likely does this because we’re Auburn alum); David and his family, who own a beautiful farm in the valley — he was one of the first friends we made and showed us simple pleasures (like how to size a rattlesnake “9 buttons and a rattle,” the meaning of “going loafing” and took us to our first Trade Day); Mike H., a farmer friend from Hokes Bluff, who owns cattle, llamas and lots of really big trucks – he helped build the riding ring and has since become our go-to guy whenever we’re faced with a job too overwhelming to handle on our own — like creating Merlin’s final resting place; Barbara, who grew up here, has traveled the world, and now lives on her “Funny Farm” down the road where she raises goats and chickens, gardens (she’s a master gardener), and keeps bees which make the most delicious honey, caused us to fall in love with Great Pyrenees after meeting her Lily, and oh, she’s a massage therapist, too; Mr. Wigley, the retired high school principal…he tends to our lawns and orchard and keeps us stocked all summer long with garden delights, most especially his perfect peaches; Allen (aka Buster), the very first person we met — he cuts and bales the hay twice a year, was attached to this land before we were, and probably knows it better than anyone…you might say we inherited him and we’re the luckier for it; neighbors Byron and Carol, who both graciously allow us to ride horses on their land; Glenda, one of the loveliest southern ladies you’ll ever meet, who at 19 married her sweetheart and together they bought 57 acres of pastureland and over decades turned it into a beautiful horse farm (she’s now been there over 40 years and still going strong); sweet little Taylor, the barrel racer…she  came into our lives just this year; so did Rebecca, an extraordinarily talented dressage rider — who reached Prix St. Georges level with her beloved Chase — and here she is practically in our own back yard.

So many friends, so many memories already. We are humbled and sometimes a bit overwhelmed by all the kindness we’ve found along the way. And every time we get here it feels like home.

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Tank

‘Tank’ (a real lady) always comes to greet us at Ms. Glenda’s farm.

 

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‘every step they take’

Saturday morning. Our house is quiet. Arielle is home for Easter, and Adrian is asleep in his room after last night’s tough loss to North Atlanta in a cold hard rain. Our little family is all here now…intact, safe, warm. “How many more mornings will we have like this?” I wonder. Tonight is prom night. Adrian’s graduation is a few weeks away. Arielle has decided to close the chapter on Washington, D.C. and move to New York City. Change is most definitely afoot. I get up, make coffee and read the papers all to myself on the sun porch — my favorite room in the house we’ve lived in for 23 years, the place where we chose to raise our two children. And as I read, there, in The Wall Street Journal is a profile on Francine Prose. Called “The Art of the Meal” it’s a Q&A with the author and her partner, artist Howie Michaels, in which they talk about the life they share today in an old farmhouse in upstate New York.

The writer knows well the place where we are now. In fact, her words on letting go reached deep into my heart 18 years ago when she penned an essay for Family Life magazine entitled, “Every Step They Take.” An eloquent account written by a young mother experiencing the pleasure…and the pain…of watching her sons grow. “Had I saved that article?” I asked myself, and ran upstairs to see if I did. Sure enough there it was, in Adrian’s baby book of all places — the book I started but never completed because, well, parenting got in the way. And now he’s a man who’ll be leaving for college in a matter of months. Mike and I have spent countless hours talking about this moment. The time when our last child flies the nest and we must find our way without them here. Suddenly I more fully understand why my husband has taken such fancy to a little brown wren who has built her nest in the back of his Rhino at the farm. There are five tiny eggs in there and Mike tiptoes through the garage lest he disturb her. For now he refuses to drive the 4×4 — not until every egg has hatched — and so he walks wherever he needs to go on the property, tools in hand.

Prose writes, “Children are born leaving us. Carefully programmed into the system are the tiny incremental steps by which they will make their way — crawling, walking, driving. This is a basic element of the life cycle, common to every species; watching a swallow who had nested on our porch cajoling and then hectoring her babies into taking their first shaky flights, I couldn’t help wondering if the mother bird had any…regrets.”

For our parent friends, and those who may one day embark on this wondrous journey, we’ll have this in common: Our children will grow up. We will draw deep breaths as they wobble around and begin to take those first steps — then keep on walking. They will fill us with infinite amounts of love. We will know nothing greater than giving them life. Treasure your time together, watch with pride as your baby birds fly away, and be happy in the knowledge that it was you who put them here and that your job was well done.

Every Step They Take-Francine Prose Family Life 1996Every Step They Take-Francine Prose Family Life 1996(2)

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confessions of a former farmville user

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Fire up the tractors! Today, Zynga released Farmville 2: Country Escape. With its adaptation for mobile, the elimination of having to get friends to participate (and hence publicly admitting you even play this silly game), as well as new privacy controls, Farmville might actually have another shot at life. It also looks like a great way to avoid your In Box, kill time in airports, make carpool lines bearable, and find yet another reason to stare at your phone while avoiding human contact whenever necessary. Not that we’re doing any of those things, mind you. It’s just an observation. 😉

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green, green grass

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greengreengrass The grass is so green right now it’s almost blinding in the sun.

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