My grandparents were the children of pioneers, and they were farmers. And they worked the land. My parents were born on the farms my grandparents created – literally. Both were born in the homes in which they grew up, learning about the land themselves and, eventually, choosing also to live on the farm – a place where I, too, was raised.
Farming is a profession of hope. You start each spring with bare soil, some seeds, and the will to make them grow into crops that not only can sustain your own family but hundreds of others. Months pass, and you continue to believe that by the time you reach the harvest season what you hoped for has, in fact, succeeded.
And then you take in those crops, thank God for the bounty, and prepare to start all over again. It was good training – and inspiration – for becoming a writer. I thought of that when I saw this scene, and while I am no longer “on the farm,” it remains in my blood and for that I am grateful.
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