A Day in the Life of a Farm Girl

Hi all,

So I am going to try something a little different. I have been writing about men, the dirt, the dish, the highs, the lows - for three years. Though I am going to guess there are more stories to come (though gosh I could use a break from bad dates for some time), I am going to shift gears a bit. I want to see if perhaps I have the talent to write in other areas. I am not sure it will spark everyone’s interest, but anything is worth a shot these days.

So at that rate, I am going to start blogging some stories here and there about my childhood. Yes, yes I can hear you all, “Everyone wants to talk about their childhood!” but this is different. Allow me to set the premises…

I was born and raised on a small farm in Northern California. By small I mean our family had an assortment of farm animals; just enough for my brothers, sister and I to take part in 4-H and FFA activities. My parents weren’t hard core farmers, looking to make a living off any one species. They just wanted to teach us how to have responsibilities. I guess you could say I learned early how to deal with shit! Oh, yes, I know you are getting excited! On average we had 10 sheep at a time, five to six pigs, 10 to 12 chickens, one horse, two to three cows, four pygmy goats, and, of course two llama’s. That is correct, I said two llamas! Don’t forget the flock of wild turkeys that would come eat the corn, the vast amount of barn cats, or any number of the dumb dogs we had (because they were obsessed with eating rocks…WTF?). Top it all off with the pack of mountain lions that visited on occasion, to eat our sheep, plus that one mean little bobcat which popped his head in every now and then!

Okay, weird, right? Well, imagine this little farm dead center of a 400 acre logging ranch. There was not a home within miles, though we had to quickly duck if we accidentally stumbled across one of the local pot farmers small shacks, they’d shoot our heads off! There were times we took cover under trees of the drug search helicopters that flew so low they nearly blew us off our feet.

I remember moving to this land of the odd. We had no electricity, no water, really nothing at all, except a large amount of clay that would prove rough for building on, a creek that ran with fool’s gold and square head nails, and masses upon masses of trees. To be honest, it was beautiful but gosh did I take it for granted as a kid. Long story short, my parents alone built a three bedroom, two story, beautiful ranch home in the middle of the property. For over a year, while the building took place, we lived with no electricity, and stole water from the elementary school’s water fountain located five miles down the road. We ate canned pork and beans with hot dogs cooked on the foreman stove or bologna sandwiches with Ritz crackers, every single night. We lived under beams and 2x4’s that were covered with plastic. When it rained, water leaked on our heads and howling winds whipped the plastic so loudly it was impossible to sleep. The only company we had was the music that pumped out of a 12” ghetto blaster, and, of course my mother singing along to the tunes. Heaven forbid we had to use the restroom, rain or shine, light or dark, guess what, grab the shovel and dig a hole. We took solar showers from under a tree twice a week. We lived it rough. I was Laura Ingall’s Wilder of the ‘90’s . Hair product and MTV were not in my vocabulary. The only thing that was allowed to use generator juice, other than the skillsaw and ghetto blaster, was my mother’s sewing machine, which crafted all four of us kids our own line of clothing (that trust me, no one would have bought into).

Can any of you even imagine one day of living like this? This was our lives. And it made each of us dependable, hardworking, and incredibly imaginary (Wow! No wonder I still believe in the perfect relationship!).

I didn’t mind working hard, but if there was one thing I was not accustomed to, it was animals. To this day, even being forced to pet a dog sends me over the edge! My sister would stand outside chatting up the butcher while I cried in my room, pillow over my head at the sound of the gunshot. Castrating baby piglets sent me into dizzy, barfing tangents with my father screaming at me to pull it together. Cleaning pens and arriving at school not noticing the crap on my leg scored me the brutal nickname, ‘Pig Pen Jen’. Wearing that all white uniform with green cap and scarf, then beating my pig in the head with a silly cane at the fair shows, while my citified uncle clapped and screamed in the stands, was humiliating. Even the undomesticated animals sent me into shock. The wild turkeys chasing me down the road, waddling so fast I was certain they would catch me and eat my head whole. The rattlesnakes that bit my mom and then we shot because they would bask in the sun along the edge of our pool, gave me near heart attacks. I still suffer nightmares of the mountain lions that roamed around the house, screaming in the night because dad put the Christmas turkey carcass in the fireplace and the smoke went into the hills calling them all in for dinner. Every animal I see to this day brings back a memory, it’s no wonder I moved to the city.

Our school was not far but took ages to drive to since it seemed we had to travel over the river and through the woods to get there. That little school bus would drop my sister and I off at the bottom of the 1.5 mile dirt road that went straight up to the house. The driver would wave us off laughing, reminding us the hill was a fantastic way to get our exercise. But exercise or not, I was terrified walking home up that hill. I feared being eaten by a mountain lion or bitten by a snake. When it rained, the road fell apart. Ditches four feet deep and two feet wide, raced full with water. By four wheel drive or worse yet, four wheeler, we made it to school, 4-H events and once a week to the grocery store and to visit what we considered our cool, homey grandma.

Now you may be yawning and already bored by this, but to me, I think it’s entertaining to read about someone with such a strange lifestyle. Below are some of the things I plan to write about that I hope keeps you interested:

• Two llama’s, four tweens, two babies, and mom driving in a small Toyota truck until getting in a car accident in San Francisco, while heading to ChinaTown…yes with the llamas
• Dad bringing home our very first black and white 10” portable TV while living under beams and plastic in the pouring rain. Wouldn’t you know the only channel that came in was “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”; it was the first time I ever heard my father cuss
• The dirt bag who stole my large piece of gold, claiming it was only fool’s gold
• Mom being bitten by a rattlesnake, which she mistakened for being stung by a bee…twice
• Getting poison oak in all the wrong places after entertaining myself swinging from tree vines
• Dad putting the Christmas turkey carcass in the fireplace, calling all mountain lions to our home
• My llama dying of a rare form of Aids after having a blood transfusion from a monkey
• The Earthquake of ’89 that sent the water towers lid flying through the air, heading straight at my mother
• My homey grandmother and our obsession with Winchell’s donuts and Saturday Night Dance Party
• Volture hill or what we called the mountain that we threw all our dead animals down, plus that one-time the pig kept rolling and rolling until it landed right in front of a speeding car on the main highway
• Castrating piglets, I have no other way of explaining the terrible event
• Running around Black Barts Race Track
• Dad selling our goats to the local Mexicans for their barbeques
• Camille the pig entertaining herself in our homemade wine barrel swing that hung from the oak tree out front
• Experiencing being attacked by the evil cock
• Our cow ‘Precious’ in the Beverly Hillbillies remake


I know some of you on facebook know me, and even lived many of these crazy events with me. However, there are many things I have sadly forgotten about. If there is something hilarious, remind me and I’ll add it to my list. Just remember, like my mother, I have a way of sometimes exaggerating (yes I know this comes as a HUGE shock, haha). But hey, it’s what makes me a writer and in turn a good story!