Hi – it's Melissa, one of two
daughter-in-laws of the Healing Brook Farm Coverts. I'm the wife of
six weeks to Rebecca's older man-child, Johnny. I'm on a farm visit
and I got permission to take on the privilege of weighing in about
Healing Brook Farm as a guest-blogger. Here goes nothing! :)
I am a city girl. There are no two
ways around it. I grew up in a suburb of a quiet little village
called Atlanta, GA. When the weather report would come on, I got in
the habit of thinking, “Okay, that's what's going on in Georgia.
Now what's going on in Atlanta?” The combination of the heat and
light and pollution was often enough to create its own
weather-bubble. I was skeptical in science class when they taught us
that there were billions of stars, because I could only ever see
eight or ten on the very clearest of nights. Let me be very clear
that I'm not out to tear down my upbringing. I loved life in metro
Atlanta and had a wealth of opportunites come my way specifically
because of my position in the outskirts of an urban jungle, and I
happily embraced them all. I saw lots of different cultures
firsthand, bargain-shopped at places like midtown Buckhead, and
learned to drive capably in some of the worst traffic in America. I
still giggle at my husband when he complains about how bad Raleigh
traffic is.
But there were also so many beautiful
things that I missed out on... and I'm making up for lost time.
Quick sidenote about me: I was almost
an Art History and French double-major in college. I was one credit
away from that art degree, but when I was told about the 40-page
dissertation involved, I happily kept my minor and enjoyed senior
year outside of the library.
Despite my laziness in that final
stretch, I did retain a lot of knowledge about the history of fine
art and the way it interwines itself with my beloved French culture.
Enough to know that one recurring theme in the seventeenth and
eighteenth century was the beauty of farm life.
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| They painted it a lot, too. This one's by Fragonard. |
As cities became a staple of modern
living in Europe, people quickly began to see their shorcomings.
Filth and crime and syphillis began to run rampant, and even the
wealthy grew wide-eyed and wondered if they had made the right choice
by shoving the masses together into stacked-up buildings and paving
over daffodils. The obvious solution, for those who could manage it,
was a retreat back to their roots: farmland. Arcadia.
Wide-open pastures. Even Marie Antoinette, emotionally taxed and
exhausted by her trying life at Versailles palace (ha-ha) retreated
to the Petit Trianon, a farmhouse she'd had built for that very
purpose.
Now, in the last month, I have seen
some of the worst of city life in my current home of Raleigh. I have
endured two colds, gotten my new car totaled by a drunk driver on a
Friday night, and fought the hoardes at Walmart for bread and milk
before a snowstorm hit.
To put it simply, this weekend (much
like Flock of Seagulls, if you are an 80s music fan) I ran.
I ran
far, far away from the traffic and pollution and threat of running
into one of my high school students at Target... and I ended up on my
mother-in-law's farm in Thaxton. When we were still an hour away,
winding up and down mountain backroads, I was already hanging my head
out the window of the Honda Civic and gasping at the hundreds of
stars dotting the sky above us.
I'd
been on the farm before, but this time around, it was like I dove in
headfirst. I did admittedly sleep in (a big farm no-no, but
something I desperately needed) but when my feet hit the ground, I
didn't stop. I bundled up and poured a big cup of coffee, then
walked with my husband the half mile down to the fenced-in pasture.
Once we got there and slid past the electric fence, I was greeted by
and snuggled with muddy Pyrenees working girls, got mobbed by three
pregnant goats greedy for grain, and got some precious, sloppy
cow-kisses from four curious calves... who knew that was even a
thing?
The
highlight of my morning was meeting two new baby lambs, only four
days into their time on this planet. They are still getting used to
being picked up, but it's important that they get socialized and used
to getting snuggled. As Rebecca pointed out, “It's a hard job, but
somebody's got to do it.” ;) I was wearing one of her coats, and I
think the familiar smell made them more comfortable being held by
unfamiliar arms. Once I reluctantly put them down, they resumed
hopping around like happy Muppets and bleated their excitement and
nursed while their mother ate her handfuls of grain – a special
treat for the nursing mother sheep to keep their milk rich and
flowing.
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| Welcome to the world, baby lambs! |
We
visited the chickens and I crawled through the coops, coaxing eggs
out from around fat hens who clucked disapprovingly – but never
pecked my hands. I held a few eggs that were still warm from the
hens who laid them. I asked Johnny if he was proud of his
germaphobic, city-girl wife, and he said he definitely was.
The
bottom line is, since the seventeenth century, people have been
paying to go back to what they considered the most pure, moral life.
I have the rare fortune of getting to experience it for free. I know
that after a family birthday dinner and a good night's sleep, we will
head back tomorrow, but we'll take some of this with us in the form
of fresh eggs, free range meat, and a general sense of well-being.
And
I'll also have this blog-entry – a disseration I ended up writing
after all. ;)