Here in my neck of the woods I am pretending to be a bit of a farmgirl. But I don't really know what I'm doing. Plus animal poop triggers my gagging reflex. Across the valley there is a Living Historical Farm, where people really do know how to farm...without machines...in petticoats.
Volunteers plow the fields with a horse-drawn spade, and long-skirted women bake stew and bread in the wood stove at the homestead. They put my bread making debacle to shame. A little while ago Rainbow Girl got to sing some Christmas songs at The Farm's Opera House.
When we went inside the Opera House, some old time singers were harmonizing the old Christmas tunes that I couldn't name. There was a gee-tar, violin, and four-part harmony all cozied up with western pine floors and victorian red walls.
This was the queen matron of the group, and she was feelin' it. So was I.
Back then...was life simpler? Sweeter? When you have to work 2 hours for a loaf of bread, do you pull up your petticoats and run whenever there's a gathering at the Opera House, or a barn dance? Did the women bring fresh pies for refreshment? Did pioneer boys try to steal kisses behind the curtain? Did the men still smell like "fertilizer"? Did the women blush when asked to dance?
Hey buddy! What's with the levis? You just ruined my memories of the long-forgotten past. Levis are 20th century. Get back in your homespun!
Oh well, in comes the crop from the 21st century...featuring Rainbow Girl.
If only Justin Hackworth had been there with his camera. Can you guess which shoes belong to Rainbow Girl?
Being a 21st century girl is worth it, but only if you have purple clogs. Thank you Grandma Cozy.
...she does the falsetto vibrato thing-ie with her voice. What is that called?
I know I'm being the proud mama here, so forgive me. But I've never been able to do that. And I always wanted to.
If they had waited just a couple of days, these horses would have been pulling a wagon with sleigh-runners...not old-fashioned handcrafted wooden spokes made by the carpenter named...
Heeey, wait a second. What's with the rubber wheels?
Oh well, back to the good life. Come on Rainbow Girl, let's hurry home to some hot cocoa bubbling in under 60 seconds, cooled off with a scoop of frozen cream. From a cow I didn't milk. In a freezer that doesn't need ice. Who would have imagined such things back on the farm!
Merry Christmas
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7 comments:
this place is near Logan?
Amber- thank you for sending me that talk- I wasn't sure who Mrs. Olsen was at first.
I miss you guys- I miss your parents. They were like mom and dad when we were in Rexburg- but now they are spoiled and sitting on a beach- so I don't like them anymore- lol- are they coming home for Christmas or are you all going to hawaii?
April, si seniorita, this farm is in Cache Valley.
My folks are NOT coming home for Christmas. In fact, Monica is there with her family for 10 days over Christmas (plus Niki just spent a month there). I'm feeling a little left out.
Hope you enjoy the talk.
Your farm life does look very charming though...and that bread looks DELICIOUS! I'm so impressed that you ground your own wheat! And you eat eggs from your own hens! My oh my! I think you are a fabulous farm lady.
That looks like such a great outing! Mom was hoping that Vaneese Leishman's voice would be inherited by someone in the family. It doesn't matter that there's no blood relation between Rainbow chickee and Vaneese (am I spelling that right?) - we've got a singer in our midst!
Jenny, thanks for the rally. I need a squad if I'm ever making homemade bread again.
Nik, I think it's spelled Veniece. Whatchyoo tink speller bee?
Rainbow Girl can draw on some singing genes from her Grandma Cozy, yipee.
Just so you know--when I was in grade school, the boys did smell like fertilizer. We square danced, and my partner's hands smelled like that--I was a snot and refused to dance with him.
Marilyn, you were destined to rise above your smelly farm life (you little snot!) only to have your daughter retreat back to the dirt. Sorry mama.
P.S. I have a wheelbarrow full of chicken poo in my backyard.
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