The prairie. My home. It beckons me, soothes me, inspires me, rejuvenates me. Under my feet are generations upon generations of history, legacy, and story. It’s where I spent my childhood and where I now spend my summers, trying to give my children the experience of playing in the dirt, campfires, and riding in tractors. Now that I live most of my life in the city, I crave the smells of grass and dirt. I miss the whispers of wind as it blows through the ripening wheat or the chatter of corn, dried, shriveled, and brown.
Just today on the way home from work I passed a soybean field being harvested. Honestly, I felt jealous. I wanted so badly to park my van, run through the ditch, and hitch a ride for a while. Call me crazy, but if my husband were to come home one day and announce that we were packing it all up and farming, I would leap with joy.
This love for the land and the people that dedicate their lives to working it propels me to write. My stories center around the prairie, hard-working families, and farming. They are a self-portrait of what I wish my calling would be. I don’t need fancy dinners; I’d much rather eat a ham sandwich on the end gate of a pickup. I don’t need a limousine ride; I’d much rather climb into a John Deere tractor, turn it on, and feel the rumble beneath my feet.
So, as I wait for my husband to come to his senses and begin farming, I shall bide my time and finish my edits for my book Amber Waves of Grace, a story that celebrates women, farming, and family. I hope you join me over the next couple of weeks as I concentrate my blog posts on the beauty of the prairie and the incredible experience of farming.