I got there about 20 minutes late because I inexplicably drove towards the wrong highway and found myself in bleeping Concord for no good reason. Mala, I think I really just wanted to hang with you, so my car steered itself in your direction. Bear in mind that there are only TWO highways heading north, and I drove 10 minutes out of my way to get on the wrong one. FML.
When I got there, I was fully ready to get my Farm Girl on. My parents have a couple of horses and make their own hay, and they used to be dairy farmers before I was born. Plus, it's Vermont, yo, so it's all rural and shit. I grew up there, but was never all that "into" it. My dad loves to tell people that I'm the farmer's daughter who once asked him if butter was a dairy product. Yeah, I rule! Anyway, I get there, and the blacksmiths are already working on the horses' hooves, and I'm cursing myself out for my little detour because I had meant to get there before they arrived. My whole purpose today was to help out Dad, because he had some fonked-up shit done to his brain yesterday in the form of a medieval torture device/screws in his skull/gamma knife thing. Yeah, no shit.
I go out to the ring and Dad's standing there with two total V-Monty characters, a man and a woman. She's all tough as shit and is filing down our big Quarterhorse's dinner plate-sized hoof, and I find out her name is Sloane, which does two things to me: 1. makes me wish I had a cool name like that, and 2. think of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Meanwhile, Dad is standing there all casual-like, but he looks like Dr. Frankenstein just removed his bolts and he's wearing a little Tractor Supply hat perched on top of his humongous bandage/turban. HEE!!! I know it's wrong to laugh, but come ON! He looked really, really bizarre. Also, he looked like he'd been in a bar fight because his eyes were practically swollen shut. Wicked cool.
They're all talking, and the smithies ask Dad who his vet is. Dad can't remember (can't blame him - again, BRAIN work), so they start tossing out truck colors. As in, this vet drives a blue truck, that vet drives a red one. I'm barely containing my giggles at this point. I mean, for real? We can identify people by their trucks 'round these parts? Jebus. After a while, Dad sends me down to the lower pasture to wait for some chick who's supposed to buy some hay. I'm like, great, I get to load hay today. Suh-weeeet. So I go down there and sit in my car, and the whore never shows, but it turned out to be my MOMENT OF ZEN for the day:
The birds are singing. There is a babbling brook to my right. There's a farmer working a field just over yonder. I'm feeling VERY peaceful and very much at one with nature and the universe and all that nice stuff, and all is right with the world.... Good stuff. Side note: one thing that I love about Vermont is that everyone waves at each other when they pass in their cars. Everyone. It's so goddamn friendly, I can't stand it.
Later on, I helped Dad put in his air conditioners, and darn it if that guy wasn't swingin' a hammer and handling a drill like he hadn't spent yesterday in a hospital with metal screws holding a steel cage on his skull. He is amazing. We went out to lunch, and he even drove. There's something about bumping along in his big ol' Caddy (yeah, Dad always drives a Cadillac, always has, always will), talking to him like nothing is wrong, that puts the happy back into my soul. We've always had very deep philosophical discussions, and some of our best talks have been in the car. In Vermont, it takes a while to get just about anywhere, so we spend a lot of time driving along, shooting the shit, laughing, and talking about life.
After lunch we went grocery shopping and I chuckled at what a little old man he has become. I also realize that I'm totally not as frugal as I pride myself on being; if I want something and it's not on sale, I buy that fucker anyway. Dad? No way! However, he bought my mom a dozen roses... just because. *sigh*
On the way home we took a detour and he showed me his friend's dairy farm. He spends a lot of time there, helping out, because he just enjoys that type of work. First of all, I have to say that I have seen the Rocky Mtns (magnificent), and I have seen the Swiss Alps (stunning), but there is just something about the gently rolling green hills and valleys of the Northeast Kingdom that inspires awe in me like no other place. Maybe because it's home.
The dairy farm was cool. I don't think I've set foot in a working barn in about 20 years, to be honest, and it was nice to see it all again, even if it does totally gross me out on many levels. And, I don't like that I got cow poop on my favorite sneaks, but I can deal with that. It was cool, and I love a good slice of life. Also, I'm a sucker for accents, and I totally DIG the Vermont accent. It's not like southern NH (which is sort of like Bahston, but not quite), and it's certainly not like Maine, which is just totally effed up. It's just this way of speaking that makes 1 syllable words into 3 syllable masterpieces of sound, and it is so down-home and so comfortable; well, I just dig it. Example: the word "cow," is pronounced, by the thick-accented natives, as "key-ow-a." Rock the fuck on! Dad gets a kick out of "harrow," which they pronounce, "herw." FYI - we don't really have accents; we're from New York/New Jersey originally.
Ok, I'm babbling. Suffice to say that it was a lovely day, and having a chance to spend time 1:1 with my father is something I'd never trade for anything. He is one of my favorite people on the planet, and he always will be.
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