parents had grown up on these farms and somehow the land and the rural lifestyle it supported seemed timeless. The farms provided a gathering place for our family and a playground for my cousins and siblings and me. Every day we would rush outside in the country air to hunt for the baby kittens in the barn, their newborn eyes still closed. Staying first at the Smith farm and then the Short, we would help our grandmothers gather eggs from the pecking chickens, watch our grandfathers milk cows, pick strawberries for shortcake, or ride in the hay wagon behind the tractor. Some summers, we stayed until the Fourth of July to set off fireworks, our grandfather keeping a watchful eye for the fire danger to the ripening fields. Each day was an adventure afforded by nature and our grandparents’ hard work on the land.
When relatives visited on Sundays, dinner seemed to last all day. Fresh and home-canned vegetables from my grandparents’ gardens always graced the table, along with fried chicken from one of the unlucky hens in the yard. Once, I even watched the proverbial chicken run around with her head cut off until she plopped over dead. My older cousin had warned me about the headless chicken, but she’d embellished a bit when she said the feet would run around by themselves when they were cut off, too. City kids didn’t know these things, and I’d become a city kid, one who spent as much time indoors reading as outdoors playing. But I must have had some farm girl left in me because even after I discovered that my friends took real vacations to places like Disneyland, I still loved coming back every year to the farms.
Each summer, my sisters and brother and I searched for changes from our memories of visits before, yet were secretly relieved when the farms remained the same. Everything seemed just as it always had—each farm had its same cookie jar on the counter, the same games for us to play, the same grandparents awaiting our arrival. The barns were still the barns; the cats were still in the farmyard; the rusted Model T was still on the hill behind the sheds; and the sun still set long past the time we should have gone to bed.
As a child, I believed the farms would remain, season after season, waiting for my return. Now both farms have been sold, the farmhouses razed, and I haven’t been back in years. But I still seek those memories in a landscape of grass and sun. Like my grandmother, I search for birds’ nests, scanning trees for round weavings of sticks and scouting the meadow for soft mounds of plaited grass. When I’m lucky enough to find one abandoned, I bring it inside to place on a shelf with cream-colored pottery I’ve collected over the years. If the nest is small and downy, I protect it in a delicate French teacup in my china cabinet. If the nest is woven of small branches, I prop the whole limb against antique candlesticks. These are the traces of my rural roots: natural things amongst the old, artifacts of living with grace and gratitude.
Lerah, Myra, and the girl from town wading near the grassy bank of the wide creek.
When I was in high school, I found an old sepia postcard in my grandfather’s envelope of special photographs that he kept separate from family albums and treasured for reasons of his own. In this photograph from the 1910s, his older sisters Myra and Lerah pose with a woman identified only as “the girl from town” who my grandfather believed worked at the telephone company. The three young women are wading near the grassy bank of the wide creek, which is pronounced “crick” in that part of the country. Myra and Lerah, farm girls who didn’t have many afternoons free to go wading, look a little surprised to find themselves standing barefoot next to each other in the water, holding up the skirts of their long dresses with both hands and giggling for the camera. Lerah, the youngest, beams playfully in her pretty white dress and hair bow, while Myra, the older sister who already worked hard on the farm, grins sheepishly in her wide-collared calico dress.
Turning slightly away from the sisters, the young woman from town is splashing through the water in a fancy white blouse, sleeves rolled to mid-arm, her long, crinoline skirt held above the water. Her eyes are closed, her smile wide, and her head thrown back in laughter. She was a town girl who probably didn’t spend many afternoons wading in a cool summer creek. Town girls’ lives were undoubtedly easier than those of farm girls, but a chance for an afternoon in the country with friends must have been a treat all the same.
Enchanted by this photograph, I made my grandmother write “Give this to Kayann Short” on the back. After my grandparents’ deaths, my mother brought it home from North Dakota for me. In it, women’s friendships form the meeting place of country and city. Against the backdrop of sky, creek, and prairie, the young women delight in each other’s company and in the chance to move without restriction, breathe fresh air, touch the earth with bare feet, and gaze surrounded by the vastness stretching beyond them. The photo even captures the fine detail of long grass as it bends in the breeze, a sepia whisper behind the women’s laughter.
This was a place I yearned for myself, yet which of the women I felt a kinship to was unclear, despite my bloodlines. I knew I descended from spirited women whose lives were made on the land. My great-great-grandmothers crossed oceans and prairies to raise families and crops on homesteads far from town. Great-grandma Short ran a dairy and, after my great-grandfather’s death, a rooming house on her own. Great-aunt Myra harvested wheat behind hefty farm horses, their shoulders reaching above her head.
From my own grandmothers, I learned the strength and independence of rural ways, but, at seventeen, I was also drawn to the town girl delighting in the country, her fancy clothes less a hindrance as she wades in the creek than an embellishment to the prairie behind her. She had come from the city to visit my great-aunts on their farm, a working girl earning her own money, freer than her friends to do as she pleased. When she returned to sidewalks and streets, she would remember the coolness of the creek bottom. There’s just more outside to life on a farm than “in town,” as my grandparents would say. Looking at that photograph as a teenager, I didn’t want to choose between town and country; somehow, I hoped my life could include both.
But growing up, I couldn’t quite imagine that someday I would live on a farm of my own. I admired people—hippies, in 1960s and 70s terms—who went “back to the land” in an off-the-grid, Mother Earth News kind of way. But farms and farming seemed more remote, more isolated and secluded, than I thought I wanted to live.
When I went to graduate school in the 1980s, the national farm crisis underscored my reservations: farms like those of my grandparents were too big and too risky to provide a secure lifestyle. Owning a farm didn’t seem practical, so my farm dreams would have to be of the past, not of the future.
Then I met John, who had a farm, and in the midst of a new agricultural movement called Community Supported Agriculture, my ideas about the viability of farming changed. Somehow, my farmroots had brought me back to the land, this time to a farming ecosystem that depended less on large-scale agricultural industry than on small-scale, local collaboration and community support.
As a young girl, I was a rock hound and my grandparents’ farmyards were my stalking grounds. I scouted petrified wood, round picture agates, and red and gold siltstone flinted like arrowheads, bringing a pailful home to Colorado each summer to polish in my tumbler on the tool bench in our garage. For years, I kept a small dark brown stone, like magma from the earth’s core cooled in the swirled shape of a horse’s head and mane. My Grandma and Grandpa Smith’s neighbor shared pieces of larger rocks he’d gathered on his own farm and from forays in that region. One was a polished oval picture agate, a horizon of shadowed trees landscaped across a champagne sky. Decades later, I had it edged in spiraled sterling with a silver chain, a memento in miniature of the land I’d left behind.
Now when I cross the bridge over the tree-lined irrigation ditch on the farm John and I own in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, I trace the steps of my rural roots from my grandparents’ farms and summers long ago. If my grandparents hadn’t loved their land, I probably wouldn’t be raising chickens and goats and growing flowers and
