I once lived that “other” life—the one with clocks and commutes, where tomatoes came from the produce aisle and meetings came with donuts that somehow didn’t make up for the soul drain. It had its moments, sure, but none that compare to these slower, dirt-under-the-fingernails years back on the farm. That other world had its perks—central air, drive-thru convenience, and nobody asking if I’d seen their missing chicken—but it never fed my soul. Honestly, it barely even fed my lunch break.
Now, in my so-called retirement (code for “I work twice as hard for zero pay”), I’ve come home—not just to a place, but to a feeling. A rhythm. A peace I didn’t know I was missing until I found it with dirt under my nails, goat hair on my shirt, and the faint smell of hay clinging to me like a stubborn houseguest. I’ve returned to the land, the quiet, and the chaos that only makes sense in the language of farming.
Nothing in that polished-up past comes close to picking a sun-warmed tomato right off the vine—so ripe it practically bursts with the pride of being homegrown. Or pouring a tall glass of fresh goat milk—slightly sweet and only as old as the time it took to strain and cool it. It’s food that doesn’t need a sell-by date. It has a soul—and a sense of humor, if you met the goat it came from.
Every morning feels like Christmas as I head out with my basket to the chicken coop—my version of Santa’s sack. What treasures have the girls left today? A half-dozen eggs? One hidden behind the feeder just to keep me humble? Or a sassy hen giving me the stink-eye while fiercely guarding the fake plastic training egg I put there to encourage proper laying habits—not in the hayloft, not under the wheelbarrow, and definitely not behind the feed bin where I’ll find it three weeks too late. Around here, it’s always a surprise. . . and always a gift.
Come winter, when the fields sleep under a heavy quilt of snow, I enjoy the rewards of summer’s labor: shelves lined with jars of sweet corn, green beans, and asparagus—each one a love letter to July. The root cellar holds potatoes, squash, carrots, and beets like a treasure chest packed by Mother Nature herself. And when the wind howls and the driveway turns into a skating rink, one bite of those vegetables will have you swearing they were just picked.
They say the trick to happiness is building a life you don’t need to escape from. I’ve done just that—trading deadlines for dirt roads, boardrooms for barn boots, and memos for manure piles.
Retirement looks suspiciously like hard labor. . . but at least now I enjoy it.
Sun-warmed tomatoes and goat kisses—who needs a beach resort?
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