Summers on the Farm

Summers on the Farm

Between the ages of 7 and 10, my summers in Curtisville, Michigan, were a blend of quiet solitude and the gentle rhythms of farm life. Dad's farm, nestled in the heart of nature, became my sanctuary. Most of the time, it was just Dad, Mom, my sister Margaret, and me, which made those summers feel like a world of our own. I loved being alone, surrounded by the natural beauty of the land, with nothing but the sound of the wind and the rustle of leaves to keep me company.

One of my favorite activities was watching things grow in the garden. The zucchini squash always amazed me. Not that I was a fan of eating them, but their growth was like magic. Each day, they seemed to swell larger, and boy, did they get big! Some of them grew to nearly two feet long, an impressive feat for a vegetable. Later in life, I learned that people preferred their zucchini smaller, supposedly more tender. But for me, there was a special joy in letting them grow to their full, oversized potential. Green beans and peas were fun to pick too, especially because you could snack on them right off the plant—something that never failed to delight me as a child.

Wandering through the orchard, I would gather wild apples and pears. The apples were often tart, but that didn’t matter; their taste was still delicious, a natural sweetness that I can still recall vividly. Some of the apples were tiny crabapples, barely the size of an egg, but they had their own use—they were perfect for throwing in playful mischief.

Helping my mom in the kitchen was another fond memory. I remember standing by her side as she made applesauce. We would boil the apples down, then mash them until they became a smooth, fragrant blend that filled the house with the comforting scent of home. My love for baking started early, especially when it came to making pies. My Grandma Waters taught me how to make pie crust, a lesson that has stuck with me all these years. I’ve baked hundreds of pies throughout my life, and Dad’s favorite was always blackberry. Baking pies became more than just a pastime; it was a way of preserving those summer days, a tradition I’ve passed down to my sons.

Berry picking was another summer ritual. Wild blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries grew in abundance around the farm. The blackberries and raspberries, in particular, were quick to fill a bucket because of their size, but picking them wasn’t without its challenges. The plants had thorns, so you had to wear protective clothing, which was less than ideal on hot summer days. Dad was the fastest berry picker I’ve ever seen. He had a knack for it, a skill honed from years of practice, and his energy was boundless. Margaret, on the other hand, didn’t share the same enthusiasm. She preferred to escape into books, especially supernatural stories by authors like Stephen King. Patience wasn’t her strong suit, and the meticulous nature of berry picking wasn’t quite compatible with her restless spirit.

Mom spent countless hours canning and freezing vegetables and fruits to prepare for the winter months. Our freezer was always full of food, a testament to her hard work and dedication. She loved baking pies, and I loved eating them, so it was a perfect match. Those summer days were filled with the simple pleasures of nature, food, and family.

But perhaps what I cherished most was my time alone. I could spend hours in a field, picking berries by myself, then bring them home to bake a pie. Fishing alone was another joy. I’d dig up some worms, walk half a mile to the creek that ran through the farm, and spend quiet hours catching small, chubby trout. I always threw them back, content with the simple act of fishing rather than the catch itself. It was during those solitary moments that I began to understand my preference for solitude. I’ve tried to join in with groups and social events over the years, but it never felt natural to me. There was something about being alone in nature that brought me peace.

Now, in my retirement, that same desire for solitude remains. My favorite activity is kayak fishing alone. It’s funny how we rush to grow up, only to spend the second half of our lives trying to recapture our childhood selves. Those summers on the farm shaped me in ways I’m still discovering, and I find myself returning to those memories time and time again.

There are many more stories from the farm, but I’ll save them for another day. For now, I’ll let these memories linger a little longer.