My sweaty hands grip the back of the bus seat as we hit, yet again, another pot hole. We’re just about out of town and I want to scream “can this thing go any faster!”, but I hold my tongue. It’s a hot day for April; the sun is beating down on my open, already sunburnt shoulders as we fly into my yard. The bus slows and I stand up first, trying to race my younger sister off. I barely avoid a warning shout from the old, cranky bus driver to “sit down until we’re stopped”. Normally I would only try to get off first to get under Sydney’s skin, but today is different. Today, I want to be the first to see the newest additions to the family.
My feet can’t hit the dirty, squishy grass fast enough as I whirl my backpack to the ground and break out in what feels like the fastest I’ve ever run. The sounds of high pitched squeals make my ears ring, but I can’t wipe the beaming smile off my face. Through the bright glare from the sun, I see mom throw an enthusiastic wave from the window, a sure sign we will be welcomed with open arms and a snack. But today is different. Today, the snacks for us wait. We know there is something more important to tend to.
I notice a familiar vehicle parked in the course gravel in front of our two story brick house. Two kids hop out, give out hugs and kisses and we begin to share stories of excitement. Ruby and Ross, the dynamic duo; always the first to cause trouble and the last to admit they had anything to do with it. I know what they are here for, and I get impossibly more excited to share this first moment with them.
A few weeks ago, I was a little unsure about how I felt. All I could think about is how much more time, work and energy I would be putting into my daily routine. Today I know it will be worth the trouble. We all barge into the house, the smell of fresh slop hitting me like a brick. As many times as you smell it, you can never fully prepare yourself for the horrible sour, rotten mixture that is old leftovers and vegetable peelings. Any other day I would cringe at that smell, but today is different. Today I encourage it and only want to bring it closer.
I quickly change pants, throw on a ratty old sweater and some heavy rubber boots. My sister and I leave the door open as I run out, slop pail in hand. I hear my mom holler “were you born in a barn?! Close the damn door!” Ironically enough, that’s where I’m headed. My dad is waiting for us, with a bigger smile than my own, presenting us with thirteen of our very own piglets. I jump into the pen, overjoyed with my new pink, little buddies. The dry, yellow straw is wrapped around their fifty pound bodies as they squirm and squeal to get away from me. Eventually, they let me get closer and I jump back, shocked at the feel of their coarse, dry skin. Startled, the pigs begin to run and their ears flap as if trying to fly. Mom comes out with her phone, struggling to snap pictures of this precious moment. For the next hour we all stare at the pigs; laughing, teasing, and simply enjoying each other’s company. Even at 15 years old, I know that moments like these are meant to be treasured and remembered. With my family and this feeling, I know that a piece of me will always belong here. I will always be able to call this place (my farm) and these people my home.
Sabrina Odelein 