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At the beginning of September, I had the opportunity to participate in an agricultural tour in Idaho, my home state. When I’ve done these tours in the past, it’s been when I was visiting a new place. I’ve seen megaranches in Florida, carrot farms in Arizona, dairies in Washington and pistachio orchards in California.
For the last few months, I’ve written about what it is like to return to my hometown. This month, I had another bout of déjà vu that pulled me even more tightly into the cocoon of our family farm.
I had to spell-check myself before I wrote that title. I didn't know how to spell corrugates, and once I had spelled it, it still didn't look right to me. Corrugates, what an incorrigible word. Do you know folks who hate the word "moist?" I feel that way about the word corrugates. I don't think I always have, but I do now.
Earlier this week, I returned from a weeklong excursion to Puerto Rico. My husband and I framed it as a celebration of our 10-year anniversary, which occurred two years ago in the grips of COVID-19. It was a fantastic trip, but the next time we are on the island, we are taking a day to visit the farms.
Last month, my family and I relocated to my hometown. It wasn’t a move I ever expected to make, but when the chance came up to live near our people, we took it.
The smell of sagebrush on a rare rainy afternoon as I ride horseback through the dry pasture. The strain of my shoulders as I pick lava rock from the 40-acre field. The clank of the tractor bucket as I toss that rock in.
One of my family’s favorite holiday traditions is watching the National Finals Rodeo during December. It signals the start of the Christmas season for us.
I walked into the convention hall a minute late. I checked in at the registration table, got my clicker and sat behind the Jerome County sign. The man sitting by me picked up the cowboy hat that he had set on my table. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t know if the other delegate from your county would make it, but here you are.” At the president’s call to order, we opened our policy books and began the annual business of the Idaho Farm Bureau.
After the third round of the World Series, our favorite (or is it least?) folks over at PETA proposed that Major League Baseball change the name of the “bullpen” to “arm barn” to “liberate the language of baseball.”
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