I’ve never considered myself a farmer. Sure, I plant a garden each summer. Even I can grow lettuce and tomatoes and green beans and such. But a farmer? No. Except when I’m watching over my sister’s place for her. Except when I’m caring for her goats and chickens and gathering the eggs.
But even then I’m not a real farmer. I know that for sure because I don’t know the answers to farmer-type questions.
What does one do when an old goat dies?
What does one do when stubborn hens have a secret escape hatch and you can’t find it?
What does one do when the animals all seem to snicker at the phony farmer?
I have no idea. Which is why I know for positive sure that I should stick to lettuce and tomatoes and green beans in my own backyard. (Okay, maybe I’ll take in a kitten, but it will have to grow up to be a city cat.)
But here’s what my short stint as a quasi farmer taught me: I can do anything I have to do. Anything!
And that feels really, really good.