Morning chores when we were dairy farming consisted of hours of work before we came back in the house for breakfast. Opting to tend to the animals before we ate, my husband and I were on the same page.
We’ve operated in tandem for years and frequently agreed on our method of operation. Did it always work out perfectly? Oh, heck no, but with 42 years of farming side-by-side you either get along — or you don’t. It was easier to get along.
I have a piece of decorative art on my kitchen windowsill simply stating in a flowery script: “Be Kind.” Kindness and getting along go a long way. I’ve quite often reminded myself (and my husband): “It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it.”
I never actually milked cows. Even as a young girl on the farm, my job was always to clean and feed young stock, help fix (get me a crescent wrench, will ya?), hold a light or shove feed in — the what I’d call peon work. Work that had to be done but wasn’t necessarily the most important job on the farm.
As a young wife, my role then, naturally, was to resume the chores I was most familiar with, feeding and cleaning. My loving, God-fearing mother — who’d farmed her whole life — taught me well, with much guidance and wise advice during my formative years.
One tidbit of wisdom, as I left my parents’ home to move in with my then-new husband, was one I took especially to heart and never forgot. With a determined gleam in her eye, she leaned in close and confided: “Don’t learn a new job. If you do, it’s yours.”
Working hard brings its own rewards. Satisfaction. Humble pride. A sense of accomplishment. Hungry after a good day’s work.
These days my “good day’s work” is maintained at a slower pace. My younger self could run circles around this self. Learning to cut myself some slack, I ask, who is pushing me to perform? No one but me.
Reflecting back, I think this need to accomplish stems from my farming upbringing. The work when I was a kid seemed endless. I loved summer afternoon thunderstorms. It brought us all in the house, waiting out the storm. My dad sitting at the kitchen table with his weather-worn farmer cap pushed back on his head and sitting — just sitting — was a rarity.
On the cusp of seven decades of life, my outside chores these winter days consist of filling up the wood stove in the predawn if I’m the first one up. Then, later mid-morning, feeding my barn cats and the birds.
Laughingly, I say to my husband, “Well, my outside chores are done for the day.”
When I was working as a PTF (part-time flexible) for the United States Postal Service, I’d be staffing an office somewhere oftentimes six days a week. It was supposed to be a part-time gig, but as the need arose, I was called into service more and more frequently.
A stint that I’d had for a while was at an office 30 miles away, where I’d have to punch in early morning and go back to finish the afternoon until closing. It was those split-shifts that wore me down. I was running ragged.
One day melting into our couch, I’d exhaled after slamming a quick lunch before heading back. My husband happened to be in the house and, glancing at me, said, “Why don’t you retire?”
It was like the sun peeking out unexpectedly on an overcast day. I pondered that question for a time. We talked it out. I prayed. Why not? Why tucker myself out to the point of exhaustion?
The first day after my retirement was like the first day after we’d sold our milk cows. What does one do all day? I was a class-A-personality, git-‘er-done type. Lists were my mainstay. I thrived on being busy.
The transition was rough. I have since learned I don’t need to maintain a hectic schedule, and that’s okay. I’ve allowed myself to be lazy sometimes. That was hard. A farm girl is never lazy, but my maturing (what hurts today?) body is telling me lazy can be good.
Because I am retired, I’m able to spend more time with Jesus and in His word. I realize it’s who I am — and not what I accomplish — that makes me worthy. I’m bought and paid for by the blood of the lamb.
Mornings as I make my bed I counsel myself: “This is the day the Lord has made, let me rejoice and be glad in it,” which reminds me to live life today.
Patting my pillow then, I pray: “One day closer to glory, Lord. One day closer to glory,” which advises me this is my temporary home. I’m just passing through.
I think my mama would approve.
(“God, now that I’m old and gray, don’t walk away. Give me grace to demonstrate to the next generation all Your mighty miracles and Your excitement, to show them Your magnificent power.” Psalm 71:18, The Passion Translation)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
