By Jonathan Heifer
On Zealous Thierry
My dream? You’d never guess, to look at me. But when I was a little kid?
I spent summers on a farm. My Dad’s grandparents’. Till I was six. When I was seven my parents divorced, and the summers stopped. My Great-Grands passed away not very long after. I don’t remember much about it, really. Except that I was happy. I fed the chickens and rode a pony. And I remember smells: the country air. Sometimes, now, a fresh rain on grass in the park? Takes me right back.
Anyway, that’s my dream: to own a farm. A small one, where I can grow my own food, and ride a horse. Maybe grow some fancy stuff for gourmet restaurants? Asparagus and herbs and free range chickens. A couple of big old brown-eyed milk cows. I want an old fashioned wood barn– I love that smell: a wood barn filled with hay and animals. I want plenty of trees, a brook with a pond, some mountains in the distance. I dream about it day and night. I calm myself looking at seed catalogs. Or I sketch out designs for my farm house. I search through the real estate photos, looking for just the right place: far, far away from the city noise, and from the stink. Be best if my nearest neighbor is out of sight. Thing is, I’ve had enough of people. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve had enough of me.
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