Tara Firma Farm

Saturday was one of those perfect fall days to romanticize the life of a farmer. The hills were commercial green, totem like hawks were perched at two mile intervals, black and white cows posed, chewing in fields. The oak trees hardly looked real and the rutted country roads would have cost extra anywhere else. The weather was warm, a Hollywood set. Unreal. We were heading north to visit Tara Firma Farm.

The cute guy's son and I barely had the car doors open when a nine year old popped out of a shed and asked if we wanted to see the baby chicks. As quick as he appeared he left, something about finding the ducks. "Close the door when you're done," he instructed, "so the chicks stay warm." I picked one up to my cheek making the mandatory cooing noises the scene required.

Outside again we walked through a hay scented barn, a hoop house of tomatoes beyond it, tubs of green fruit inside. We passed walls of uncarved pumpkins, scattered green watermelon. And not far away we came to the hogs; hogs trained to run toward us and ask if we brought them more pumpkins. They snorted and stretched in the warm mud at our empty hands. Starlets, every one of them.

Across from the hogs were turkeys; also trained to appear effortlessly happy. They modeled their fat breasts, stood on one leg, pecked at each other caringly. Neither of us breathed a word about Thanksgiving.

We met a father and son on the way back, film extras I was sure, walking back to their car from the pond, fishing poles in hand. "The casting was good," the father said.

I bought a dozen white eggs in the farm store as if I'd never seen white eggs before. "They're white," I exclaimed. "They're white." I was embarrassed even then but what can I say? They were white!

On the way out, and neither of us wanted to leave, I gazed longingly at the sloping blue farm house, the square paned windows, the white washed porch. I wanted to stay forever. Until I realized I'd tracked a bunch of mud into the car. Then I was ready to go home.

The romance hasn't ended though. The white eggs - almost as bright and good as Dad's. What a find.


Tamara said...

I'm so glad you made it out there!
It's such a magical place, and you did
it justice with your writing.

June said...

Sometimes a day is just that perfect, mud and all.

Beautiful post. Happy Thanksgiving!

Kelly said...

what a lovely post. gotta love a good farm!

Kale for Sale said...

Tamara - Thank you for telling me about the farm. We'll have to go together some time.

June - There's still some mud in the car and I have to say it makes me smile. Merry Thanksgiving to you too.

Kelly - I felt cruisy on the farm! The minute I stepped out the door. You know.