As a youngster, traveling was not my favorite activity. Once when I was eight, we headed for my Aunt Sybil and Uncle Eldon’s farm in the small rural area outside of Mankato, Kansas. The family piled into our white 1950 Oldsmobile. At that time, our new family included my stepdad driving and Mom in the front, while I had the whole vinyl upholstered back seat to myself. It was a good thing I did since I was sick as a dog all the way there. The roads resembled a roller-coaster with its undulating hills and valleys which we took at the brisk pace of 50 miles per hour. My stomach churned and churned, but no relief from upchucking made it better. I moaned and groaned, rolling back and forth on the seat. Then, I tried sticking my face out the window, whose cooling breezes helped somewhat. However, the wind burn created by this activity didn’t present a happy alternative. Hours later, I could hardly wait to step out onto a solid, non-moving surface.
When I could again regain my equilibrium, I was ready for the adventure of the farm. The sights, the smells–What was that horrible odor? My town girl nose crinkled up in disgust at the pungent odor of pig manure emanating from the barn several feet away. Wanting nothing more than to escape this earthy part of country culture, I despaired as the adults began to head that way.
In addition to the primitive smells, I began to hear an accompanying sounds of snorts from the guilty creatures. Oh look, how exciting! Some sweet little baby pigs, so pink and cute! Egads! That giant mama pig is after me.
All of a sudden, I found myself halfway up into my stepdad’s arms, having left my manure-laden foot prints all over his Sunday pants. Even though I disliked displeasing him, I had a much greater fear of the fiercely protective sow trying to attack me.
It wasn’t long until I was out of there and on my own muddy feet. My two handsome twin cousins, Jimmy & Jerry, had just returned from hunting rabbits and were proudly showing off their kill–some poor bunnies, who were bleeding all over. In fact, one of them dripped blood on my comic book. Yuck!
So much for the romance of the farm for a small town girl who left with a much more realistic view.
Dianna
Sharing the Fruit of Maturity
