These are memories

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These are memories you don’t find in boxes.

These are memories you don’t plan.

These are memories made of fun.

Plain fun, old fashioned together time.

Laughing boys. Running dogs. Smiling us.

These are memories you keep forever and an extra day.

These are memories you don’t have to label.

These are memories made with silly smiles.

Plain old belly laughs, mile wide grins on red faces.

Loving times. Snowy days. Memory making.

These are memories you want to share, and yet keep just us three.

These are memories made on the farm and in the country.

These are memories made with simple things.

Plain up the road and back again fun. Spinning donuts.

Moments not captured but treasured. Memories alive.

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Out standing in their field, the old joke goes.

Farmers are their own breed to be sure.

Growing boys, and girls, strong and true.

Raising food, caring for the land – in their blood.

 

Outstanding in their fields, doing what they love.

Farmers are true to one thing, and one thing only.

Growing it better, one eye to the sky and one to ground.

Raising hopes, raising dreamers – in their hearts.

 

Out standing in their fields, eyes to those they love.

Farm wives washed in blood, sweat and tears.

Growing it at home, in the field and in their souls.

Raising it generation after generation – in their DNA.

 

Outstanding and insane, outstanding and obscure.

Farmers are a special breed, and so it should be.

Growing it started in God’s own first garden after all!

Raising hands deep in soil, blooded on the land. Forever.

 

Six generations on this Canadian soil, with the seventh standing in the field with his Daddy.  More generations past across the seas.  It is in our blood, our DNA says “Farmer! Rancher!” and of that we are proud.  Looking at this harvest picture I think that maybe that is the way it is meant to be…for our family anyway.  Every generation needs at least one, and this is ours.

High Cotton

With Real Toads Photo Prompt, photo by Ellen's Edge "Cotton"

 

I never knew when I was young what it meant

to be ‘walking in high cotton’ until I saw

the waves of cotton fields across the

panhandle of northern Texas.

 

We stopped by the road to pick a few to see

if they were really cottony soft and white.

Flat horizon and  cotton as far as you

could see, it went forever and then.

 

Older now I know, that high cotton means work,

hard and back breaking.  Even with machines

there is nothing easy about cotton but

how it feels combed and smooth.

 

“Walking in high cotton” means a bumper crop

with the hard work still to come and still

we grow it, we pick it and we bale it.

Sell it and someone wears it.

 

I feel like those cotton fields sometimes,

do different from a distance than close

up and in your hands. The hard and

the soft grow together here.

 

We don’t grow cotton on the northern plains,

we grow corn, soy beans, hay and canola.

We raise cows, hogs, chickens and

sometimes we raise hell.

 

We dance in the fields and in the dirt here.

We chase the cows and fix the fence.

We raise our kids and our dogs

and we love on the land.

 

Remembering the first time I saw cotton fields as we drove across Texas as a child.  I thought the white and black fields would never end under that flat horizoned sky.  Those endless plains on that endless drive keeps me seeking hills and trees but it reminds me too that we who farm and ranch do it because we love it.  Copyright 2012 Shanyn Silinski.  Prompt from With Real Toads today.