Farm Fantasies

We live in a subdivision. Complete with 0.4 acre lots and a wacko overlord of the Homeowners Association. When we bought 7 years ago, the boys were 2 and 4. Better to raise them in a neighborhood, I thought. But the problem is that kids today don't play outside. The 3-acre common area behind our home is the exclusive stomping grounds of my boys. When friends come over to play I give the disclaimer: I let the boys run wild in the common area. They might fall in the creek. They might climb trees. They might, heaven forbid, get dirty. 

So for the past two years I have been cursing the restrictive covenants intended to keep our property values up. I want to raise chickens. Egg hens and meat birds.  I want a goat. Maybe a mule. My ag roots are showing. You see, my maternal grandparents were once sharecroppers on a Georgia Farm. One owned by my paternal great-grandfather. Grandmother Stewart said this about Grandmother Skinner: "She was the workingest woman I ever saw. Hoed cotton with one baby on her back (Josephine) and one baby on her front (Nell)."  My grandparents eventually bought their own farm. 

I can't look at my own chicken legs without thinking of Grandmother Skinner, who farmed into her late 70's, and who taught me that chickens like to stand when they deliver their eggs. I now insist on buying cage-free eggs. Pa Stewart kept a pony and goats for the amusement of his grandchildren. So the picture above is of a barn that is for sale with a cute cottage near me. My own mother-in-law hopes to move here soon, and this is the property that I hope she will occupy. What an excuse to check on her--I'm just here to feed my chickens!