I just finished reading Farmer Boy – for those of you who aren’t die-hard Laura Ingalls Wilder fans, the little girl on Little House on the Prairie did eventually grow up and write those books, but first she got married to Almanzo Wilder; eventually, she wrote a book about his childhood, too. If I could snap my fingers and suddenly be 9 year old Almanzo Wilder, I’d be awfully tempted.
I borrowed the book from the library intending to read it to the boys. After 2 chapters, I wasn’t sure they were ready for it. There were big boys that came to school in winter so that they could beat up the teacher. The previous year’s teacher had been beaten so badly that he died. This year’s teacher (who was a friend of the dead teacher) ends up with a whip and uses it on 2 of the big boys while the others slip out the window and are never heard from again. Almanzo isn’t allowed to speak at meals. He isn’t allowed to play on Sundays. He must not speak at school except for recess, lunch and when it is time to recite his lesson. He must get up and do chores before breakfast, and when he comes home he must do his chores again before supper. Does this dissuade me from believing I would be completely happy living Almanzo’s life? Nope.
There is always something to do, and there’s something different to do with each season. The idea of taking my kids out of school because it’s time to make hay is just lovely. Imagine drinking milk that was in the cow that morning! Being completely self-reliant – isn’t that the ultimate in a sense of safety and security? And is it really necessary to chatter away at dinner? It certainly feels like it. Study after study is showing the importance of family dinner time in raising decent children. And it isn’t the act of sitting down together that does it, it’s the conversations. Usually when I sit down to eat – after a full day, after cooking the entire meal from scratch – I would like to simply enjoy my meal. In fact, I usually find my husband taking up the conversational slack when we have guests over for dinner. I’m downright garrulous once dessert is served. Refreshment isn’t just in the mouth, it’s in the mind as well.
This story’s intrinsic comfort is its completely zen attitude towards life. She points out something to enjoy in almost every single thing he does. There does not appear to be any joy in the weekly bath when it is 40 below and you live in a house without central heat. Churning butter is boring, but the butter is delicious and brings a lot of money for the family. Beating the carpets once a year is a hated chore. But everything else has its little charms. Almost everything seasonal has the fun of getting him out of school (which is just doing something out of the ordinary, which anyone can appreciate). Milking has its own rhythm and satisfaction. Hoeing the corn has another rhythm and instant gratification. Making hay has its sweet smell, and he gets to ride on top of the huge wagon load of hay. So many simple pleasures.
I am happiest on the days when I can find those simple pleasures in my life. Watching the vinegar evaporate from the mirror with its evanescent rainbows. Enjoying the warmth of the laundry as I fold it. Dancing along to a good beat while putting the toys away. Finding ways to make the kids happy, so I can enjoy their smiles. Losing myself in thought while I vacuum. The delight of seeing a delectable meal come together in my own kitchen.
So maybe it’s not actually the farming that I really want. Maybe what I covet is the ability to enjoy what I’m doing all the time. And that’s really up to me. Still, maybe I’ll go ahead and plant that vegetable garden, just in case.
