To say that I’m from rural America is an understatement. I’m from the suburbs of rural America. I spent my childhood running through sagebrush and milking a goat. I love the look on people’s faces when I tell them that one of my strongest memories from childhood was filling in one outhouse hole and digging a new one. I caught rabbits for food, tended a garden, and played outside–a lot.
These pics are from my old childhood haunts. They remind me of the smell of the horses and goats, the waxy feel of a sagebrush wand as I used it to ward off imaginary evils, and the blisters that come with honest and sometimes brutally hard work. I literally had to walk to the bus stop in a foot of snow, uphill both ways (really, I can map it for you–uphill BOTH ways).
I’m educated now. I make more money than my parents did, and I live in a not-so-rural small city. The greatest struggle my children have is getting in the minivan on time to be driven to the bus stop so that they can be spared the cold of early snowy mornings. They complain about having to sweep the floor when I had to fix fence posts and shovel horse manure.
But I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. I had time to be wild, sticks and tree forts instead of cell phones and school plays.
Ahhhh, the nostalgia.