I’m the Farmer’s Daughter

The view outside my bedroom window at home includes some apple trees, my grandmother’s house, and a pen filled with the “teenage” cows. And it’s not just a view. Early in the morning, in the summertime when I leave my window open, I can hear them wake up. They beller, or “moo” if that’s the sound you think cows make, and then the gates start to rattle as them and the “grown up” cows start to stick their heads through the slots and start to eat breakfast.

For most of my life, I have lived on a dairy farm. My dad is the farmer. My mom is the farmer’s wife. And I am the farmer’s daughter.

What does this entail?

Well, I can tell you this much. I never woke up in the early hours of the morning to milk the cows. Not my job. And I was never a principle chore doer, responsible for things like feeding calves or pitching pens. Though, I did get paid fifteen dollars a month for a few summers to water calves, so I guess that’s something.

Judge me if you will, but I’m still a farm girl—as evidenced by my experience while living away from the farm. And I know more than the average person about farms and cows and manure. I’m not the farmer, but I am the farmer’s daughter.

And I happen to love my family’s farm. Since being away from home, I cherish deeply the memories I made there. I enjoy chatting with my dad about his herd, and I happen to even enjoy going into the milking barn and seeing everything in action—even when a cow so rudely flicks her tail at my face. (Tails aren’t very clean.)

Unfortunately, not everyone gets the chance to grow up on a farm. There are actually people out there who go to the grocery store and buy milk. I feel bad for them. And so, I’m generously giving them a glimpse into my world, i.e., a dairy farm of about 100 milking cows in Weston, Idaho.

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