Roots...Alfalfa Roots That Is

Inspired by this post over at Call Me Nurse, I thought I'd do a post about where I grew up and where I learned my work ethic.

I grew up on an alfalfa farm in the high country of the great American Southwest. Most people, upon hearing where I'm from imagine barren desert with nothing but cactus and rattlesnakes, but that couldn't be farther from the truth.

I grew up in a valley where three rivers join together before finally contributing to the mighty Colorado River on its journey to the West coast. The rivers afford irrigation, and the soil is surprisingly fertile given the arid conditions offering excellent growing potential. Even though our family farm was in a valley, the elevation was still 5300 feet above sea level. Not terribly high for most mountain folk, but high enough to shorten the growing season, temper the summer heat, and put us firmly in the snow zone.

The town closest to the farm was originally founded for agricultural purposes, and it's as evident as its name. Apple orchards, wheat fields, and hay farms dotted the countryside, clustered around each of the three rivers. The county fair is the biggest in the area and has barn after barn of agricultural goods and livestock. But the economic focus of the town has shifted. Oil was discovered, coal, and natural gas in the coal seams. The town is now a dirty little oilfield town, and the tempestuous energy industry has left its ugly mark with its booms and busts. It's the reason I highly doubt I'll ever live there again.

The farm itself was homesteaded by my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. My grandfather grew up and died in the same room in the same house on the same land. The farm used to be quite large, but through selling pieces off in hard times and the highway right of way cutting the farm in half and making it difficult to get from one piece to the other, it's been whittled down to only about 60 acres.

It wasn't always an alfalfa farm. In the early days it was a working dairy farm, and there are still remnants of that former personality still on the property. A milk house with a trough down the center lengthwise cut into the concrete floor to water the cows while they were lined up to be milked. A stray milk can here and there. And a concrete block ice house to chill the milk while it waited to be transported to the local dairy.

My mother tells of drinking raw buttermilk from tin cups as a kid, and I have very distinct memories of the same brightly colored tin cups when I was a child. In fact, those tin cups are on my short list of things I want from the estate now that both my grandmother and grandfather have passed on. It was in this kitchen that I learned how to cook on a gas stove. I learned that you don't stick your bare hands into Grandma's dishwater for risk of scalding yourself. What you can't see in this picture is the vent over the stove that my grandmother crawled up to unscrew the cover from so that Santa would have a way to get inside for one of the earliest Christmases I remember at Grandma's house.

I was born in a Navy town in California, and that's the reason my parents were there to adopt me. My dad was in the Navy, and when he got out after 21 years, my family moved back to the family homestead. It was then my days turned from lounging about SoCal learning to ride my bike in the cul-de-sac to the harsh reality of life on a working farm.

During the summers we worked basically from sun-up to dark-thirty. School was a welcome respite. While my friends in town were having swim parties and sleepovers I was stuck out in the field setting water for irrigation or in the garden weeding. This isolation meant I had few no good friends outside of school. Even the people I hung out with during school were just superficial acquaintances. I think it's part of the reason my junior high and high school years were so awful for me socially. I was more at home with the shovels and hay bales than with people my own age. And it showed.

I resented having to work so hard all the time. It's definitely affected my work ethic. When things are slow, or it's my choice to start work or not, I often find myself unwilling to begin. I feel like I need time to do my own thing every day or I start to rankle against the workload. That's tough when you're in nursing school, working, and watching the kids while your wife is at work. I get fed up at times, and I know it sounds selfish, but I need my ME time. I never had any ME time growing up. In some ways I feel like my childhood was stolen from me. The flip side of that coin is my work ethic when things are really busy--and there I shine. I know how to work hard, been doing it for years, and it's ingrained in who I am.

There is value in my childhood though. I learned to cook, because cooking dinner meant you got to go inside an hour earlier. I have great amount of physical strength for my size, even now, years later. I imagine it had to do with having to learn to toss 200 lb hay bales when I only weighed 140-150. I've been driving farm trucks and tractors since I was 9, so drivers ed was a cinch. I know an enormous amount of information about a myriad of things because reading was my escape from the isolation of the farm. I have the knowledge and skills to be completely self sufficient if need be--so bring on the zombies.

So much of our past is who we are today, and I guess my past is a mixed bag. The high country is a harsh place. It can literally kill you if you're not careful. But there is so much beauty there too.

Don't think there aren't days that I don't close my eyes and think about the feasibility of moving out to the country and becoming a farmer again. The thing about dirt is it gets in your blood, and no amount of city living or education can wash it out. This much I have come to understand.

I think it might be a very real option after I graduate. I mean, we only have to work 3 days a week, right? What am I going to do with the other 4?