Thursday, December 4, 2014
Is there a such thing as glarming? Glamour farming? There's Glamping, so why not glarming? Maybe because when you get down to brass tacks, farming isn't glamorous at all. Open toed high heeled strappy sandals with white socks? Girl, you ain't been in the pig pen, have you?
Growing up, I had girlhood dreams of classic Hollywood quality of that well-dressed and quaint housewife, tidy, airy, beautifully decorated farmhouse, abundant flower garden, neat vegetable garden, and a red and white farm beyond. I dreamed of woodstoves, and mending, and the scent of rose or lavender or lilac. I dreamed of preparing homemade meals for strapping boys and sweat-smiling husband coming in with the faint waft of hay behind them.
Then, I started micro farming.
I don't get to wear pretty dresses and hang out in the tidy farmhouse making meals and smelling of roses.
I wear torn, stained jeans, work outside, my cottage gets messy and tracked up, and I smell of pig poop and goat.
I don't have time or money for a decent flower garden.
I pass up the vintage dress at the flea market because I have to buy animal feed.
We can't earn sole income on a micro farm, so my husband doesn't get to wander in from the fields like a romance novel cowboy. And even if he did, he wouldn't smell of hay. He'd smell of pig poop, diesel fuel, and body odor.
Woodstoves are great and I do want one, but they are messy and make everything smell of woodsmoke or bacon, not roses.
And thus my cottage would get messier and I hate messy clutter, especially in such a small space.
The American Dream gets lost in the translation to reality. And I wonder how much of this desire is based on true farming passion and how much is based on that little girl's fantasy world.
Can I have both? Can I Glarm?