I grew up on a small, and when I say small I mean tiny, farm in Southern California. Yes, this is where all the contradictions begin. A farm in Southern California -doesn't really strike up idyllic scenes of open fields in the Wisconsin countryside, but nonetheless, it was a wonderful childhood experience.
Pine Oaks Acres, as my parents aptly named the farm due to the large number of pine and oak trees on the premises, was just three and 1/4 acres. We had Suffolk sheep, up to 100 head at one point; a few Jersey cows, La Mancha goats, Canadian geese, chickens and horses. Oh and let's not forget the dogs and cats -Poodles, Persians and even a Mastiff. And there was a manure pile, well two to be exact. One perfectly located behind the little red barn where the Jersey cow was milked and consequently where my mother went into labor with me on a chilly December day while milking our old cow Princess.
I love to tell the stories from growing up on our little farm and see the expressions I get when I tell people about the neighborhood kids and me hurling ourselves off the roof of the red barn into the manure pile. This pile was mostly compiled of straw, but there was of course plenty of cow pies, as we fondly called them, mixed in. It was a feeling of absolute weightlessness as we soared through the air into well, a pile of shit. As I thought about this activity this morning, the metaphor wasn't totally clear for me, but I knew there was something there. And right then I decided, I need to start writing a blog. So there you have it, I am jumping into the manure pile, feet first and the free fall feels amazing. Let's hope the landing is mostly straw.
