Don’t let my rose-colored nostalgia fool you–growing up on the farm was far from glamorous.  It’s easy to romanticize country life from my leather couch and pink laptop…so here’s a really random and honest assortment of not-so-glamorous moments.

Let me tell you about Thursdays, when Uncle Kent drained the chicken manure pits with the honey wagon, and then spread the manure all over the fields that surrounded our house. Somehow, the wind always picked up a bit on those afternoons and made sure that all of Woodford County smelled that yumminess.

One interesting challenge is trying to tie a sheep to the swing set in order to shampoo it before the 4-H fair, just so that it could inevitably take a dump later and sit in it.  Rarely was one shampoo at home enough for the show ring.

One of the most horrific days in country life is “butchering day,” which consequently fell every year around my birthday.  It was always a hot, humid day in early July, and we’d roll out of bed at the crack of dawn to chop off chicken heads, drain the blood in a cone-shaped device, run the warm bodies through the plucker and then into cold tubs of water to start to cool.  One of my tasks as a child? Helping bury the chicken feet in the pasture, because it was the only part of the chicken that we couldn’t use or dispose of any other way.  You don’t want to know some of the parts that mom would cook up for us to eat.

That leads me to squirrel stew–I remember a winter when mom was trying to do one of the following–be really creative with meals, encourage my brother Jeff’s hunting skills, or hone her skills in frugality.  Regardless, we ate whatever Jeff shot, skinned, and brought home.  I think the greasiness of the squirrel stew that year was even worse than the opossum, and I only remember escaping to the cellar with Joyce and our peanut butter sandwiches.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Grandma and Grandpa Hodel lived on Susan Lane in a modest ranch style house; a couple of Fridays a year, however, the house was no ordinary farmer’s home on the edge of Metamora.  It became Honky Tonk’s Pizza Parlor and was the Chuck E. Cheese for my cousins, siblings and me–no adults allowed.  We’d gather around the old wooden table, complete with hand braided fabric placemats that grandma had made.  The gooey  home-made pizza and sweet iced tea taunted us during grandpa’s lengthy prayer, and then we’d dig in, playing little mind to grandma’s reminder to use the napkins. After all, the Hodels were on sabbatical and good ‘ol Honky Tonk was in charge.  Supper was a loud affair of talking, laughing, and anticipating the pool tournaments that would take place in the basement throughout the evening.  I don’t know who came up with the idea or name of Honky Tonk’s Pizza Parlor, but after one party, it stuck and we even as high school kids, we looked forward to the nights when the grandparents would “vamoose” and Honk Tonk took over.

Christmas was another extraordinary affair at the Hodel home–it wasn’t enough to wear tacky Holiday sweaters and socks, though we all wore both, but we also had to lug our instruments through the front porch door and into the living room.  In my family, it was normal to have a full instrumental concert prior to opening presents.  Mom, my sister, and I played the clarinet, and grandma took her turn in between.  Aunt Karen played flute and my  brothers made up the brass section, as Duane mastered the tuba, Brad the trumpet, and Jeff the Saxophone.  Dad didn’t want to feel left out, so he’d join in on his harmonica every time he saw an opportunity, and Uncle Doug and Lori led the choir, accompanied by Aunt Janet and Christine.  I don’t know what other instruments were involved, but I know that everyone had their part either instrumentally or vocally, and lack of participation was not an option.  I also know that I was completely horrified when grandma told my high school sweet heart that he could stop by and join us one year. Thankfully, mom said this was family only time and I dodged that awkward explanation.  As always, nostalgia trumps embarrassment and I would give anything to gather one more time with our family band.

I just moved in to a beautiful three story town house in downtown Atlanta with my husband.  I’ve never lived in the city before.  In fact, I grew up on Rural Route 1–as country as it comes.  And here begins some cataloging of the past, how it has created my present, and what it says about the future….and we start…

I grew up in home made clothes and hand me downs, wishing for store bought clothes. I rode a three wheeler through the fields to gather eggs on my cousin’s chicken farm.  I spent my Saturdays learning to sew, cook, bake, can, and garden, in hopes that if we got our work done, we might be able to float on an old inner tube at the local Ike Lake.  In high school I sewed a matching hair scrunchi for nearly every outfit I owned, sewed my own dresses for both proms, and still carried my lunch in a hard plastic lunch box with “Rocke” on the lid in sharpie.  I learned to cook for a full crew of hungry boys, pressure washed and painted the chicken house in the summer time, and won a purple ribbon at the state fair for my tea ring coffee cake.  I appreciated the Grand Ol Opry on Saturday nights with my dad and was a fan of Neal Diamond and Tammy Wynette when it wasn’t cool, even among us rural folk.  I learned how to live on little, refrain from asking for things that were frivolous, and thrived in a DIY, organic world long before it was trendy.

My parents believed in hard work, family, and God.  We ate in the summer and canned for the winter from our enormous garden, butchered chickens in July and froze enough for the year, and bought only what we had to.  “Blest Be the Tie” and “Just Another Walk With Thee” were melodies mastered at a young age and we understood the importance of Sunday in church.  My family wasn’t and still isn’t refined; they don’t say “tortilla” or “parmesan” correctly and wear clothes patched or redesigned from the 70s and 80s.  They are simple, country, religious people—the best you might ever be lucky enough to meet.

I’m sitting on a black leather sofa in downtown Atlanta, looking out at the cobble stone town square and bocce ball court, sipping a cocktail and crocheting a blanket for my best friend’s baby.  I’m listening to folk music and am reminded of where I come from, regardless of my now urban environment and store bought things.