When you work hard all week, having the reprieve of the weekend is liberating.  You can sleep in, relax, read a book, go to the movies, and just enjoy some you time.  Who wants to wake up with the sound of rosters crowing and sheep bleating at the crack of dawn?  Who’s first thought after such a rude awakening is, “hmm, I can’t wait to go shovel manure.”? As an adult, I can hardly imagine myself excited or motivated to get out of my nice warm bed, bundle up and go out to bring grains to the chickens or slop to the pigs.  When I imagine doing farm duties on my day off, I am filled with a feeling of dread.

As a child, I saw things quite differently.  It was almost as though the roosters and sheep were beckoning me.  Living next to a working farm was a privilege not a nuisance.  I couldn’t wait for the weekend.  Not for the reasons I do now, but because I could walk out my back door, through my back yard, over a little stone wall, and right onto a farm.  I could hardly contain myself.  As soon as I saw Mrs. Haig or her son Ben I knew I could go over.  Waiting for the go sign was almost unbearable.

I have so many vivid memories of this utopia.  It was full of wonder and excitement.  My mind was swirling with curiosity.  One discovery lead to another question.

Once I navigated the stonewall and walked around the farmhouse I was in the front yard.  From there, the scene was breathtaking, at least for a five year old.

It wasn’t the Grand Canyon, or the Sistine Chapel.  But everywhere I looked was another adventure.

For example one of the first tasks I was given on the farm was to collect eggs from the chicken coop.  I was completely confused, because as far as I was concerned eggs came from the grocery store.  That misunderstanding was cleared up quickly, and I was off to the coop.  The structure was reminiscent of an oversized doghouse, surrounded by a penned in outdoor area.  It was surrounded by chicken wire, hence the name.  With each step I took toward the coop, my feet made a sucking sound as I pulled them from the mud.  I could hear the hens clucking as if they were exchanging some kind of juicy gossip.  Just as I was about to reach the coop entrance, I paused for a moment, set my hand made basket on the ground, and just observed them for a minute.  I watched them in wonderment as they strutted around, heads bobbing all the while.  As I stood there, Mrs. Haig came up behind me, and led the way into the coop.  I followed her in, and as soon as I was through the door I smelled something different from any smell I’d ever experienced, it was a sort of stale scent with an underlying note of urine.  But my awareness of the smell passed almost immediately.  I looked down at my feet and noticed the woodchips from the floor that had adhered to my muddy shoes.  As I lifted my line of vision from my feet, what I saw brought forth and excited gasp.  There were six little doors, each hinged at the top with a small knob on the front.  It reminded me of a nativity calendar.  I couldn’t wait to see the prize inside.  Mrs. Haig gave me an encouraging nod, so I tentatively pulled the first door open.  There inside, sitting side by side were two perfect eggs.  I picked them up one at a time, gently placing each one into my basket.  I opened the second door much to the same effect.  There was just one egg this time.  As I closed my hand around the third knob, and lifted the door, I heard a strange squawk and frantic flapping.  I jumped back in fright and let the door slam.  Apparently there was a hen sitting on her eggs.  As I reached into the third box and plucked out the egg she had been sitting on, I was surprised at how warm she had made it.  The rest of the egg retrieval went on without consequence.

As I said, that was one of the first farm duties I learned.  But my curiosity kept me coming back.  Gathering the eggs was a simple task, but my mind ran with it.  I had so many questions.  Did you make this basket?  How did you make it?  How do chickens lay eggs?  Why do they go inside the coop boxes to do it?  Can chickens fly?  Why don’t they get out of the pen?  That was just the tip of the iceberg.

Every time I went there Mrs. Haig would answer my questions and prompt me to ask more.  I learned that the funny smell in the chicken coop was nothing compared to the hut where the pregnant and nursing pigs lived.  When I went in there it was a vicious assault on my nostrils.  I learned how to shear the sheep, and use carding paddles to prepare the wool to be made into yarn.  I saw pigs give birth and helped with the babies.  The list is endless.

Now that I am a grown-up, the thought of farm duties is a turn-off.  The idea of waking up early, the nasty smells, the mud, the manure, the hot sweaty days, the days when frostbite starts to set in, non-stop manual labor, it paints a pretty unappealing picture.  I have lost the one thing that made farm life appealing, curiosity.

Curiosity is what makes life entertaining.  I spent time on the farm as often as I could.  I went to collect eggs countless times.  Had I been lacking in curiosity, the chore would have become mundane.  Without wonder, tasks become almost robotic.  There are so many people who work at a job they are bored in, going through the motions because they believe they have to.  But the lesson here is, spark up your curiosity, and every day will bring something new.  Curiosity can make any activity interesting and meaningful.