Tales of Not-a-Country Girl

I have a confession, though I don’t know if I can call it a confession since it’s painfully obvious to anyone who has ever met me. I am not a country girl. I don’t particularly care for nature. My idea of roughing it is waiting for my heels to get recapped when the bottoms are worn out. I will only camp if I’m within a block (note the use of a city term) of a bathroom that has running water and showers. So when we made an excursion to my father-in-law’s family farm in Ashby last weekend, I knew there would be a story to tell.

The morning began with me attempting to find the perfect outfit to wear to the family farm (see, I told you I’m not a country girl). This included picking the exact right pair of shoes, otherwise known as my knee high leather boots. My theory was that of the 20 something pairs of shoes I own, they were one of only five pairs that were flat, weren’t my running shoes, and would keep my pants from getting dirty. When I asked my husband if they would work, he responded, “They’re the closest pair of shoes you own to being farm acceptable.” Awesome.

Upon arrival at the farm, the first activity of the day was fourwheeling. So off went my father-in-law with my stepson and two family friends on one fourwheeler. Off went my husband on another. There stood Katie, in her fashionable boots, watching them ride away, attempting not to get dirty and pondering if Ashby had a mall.

Adam on the fourwheeler

After a short while, the boys returned. Summoning my courage and repeating, “I am a good wife, I am a good wife,” I asked my husband if he would take me for a ride. He looked like you could have knocked him over with a feather. I hopped on the back and we sped (and by sped, I mean we hit a max of 20 before I screamed, “too fast, we’re going to get hurt!” or “I hate gravel roads!”) around the farm. As we drove, my inner city girl was replaced by my fall-aholic self.

Fall on the farm

Intoxicated by the brilliant colors, I heard myself say, “Lets go to the other side of the lake.” Now, to get to the other side, you have to drive through an old cow pasture that’s protected by an electric fence. Before I could retract my statement, my husband sped off. Now my options were unlocking an electric fence or driving a fourwheeler through a cow pasture (sounds like a city girl’s dream right?).

Taking a deep breath, I listened as my husband showed me how to drive the fourwheeler and repeated, “you will not die in the wilderness or in a cow pasture” to myself. Then, in my fabulous farm outfit, I drove the fourwheeler through the cow pasture to the other side. I also made my husband take this picture as proof:

That day I embraced a small part of me that I didn’t know I had. And while I may not be ready to fourwheel all over the farm or to traipse around nature, I felt a small little sense of pride, almost like a tiny piece of country girl had made her way into my sparkling city personality. As a side note, that feeling of accomplishment was only slightly diminished when I attempted to throw my husband off the back of the fourwheeler on the way back to the house.

The moral of the story? Nature, while dirty, isn’t so bad sometimes. Especially when you have an amazing family to share it with. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on a pair of heels and go to the mall.

3 thoughts on “Tales of Not-a-Country Girl

  1. Pingback: Tales of a 4 Year Old | To Fargo, with love …

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