It was a brisk Saturday morning. I know it was Saturday because I wasn’t on the way to school, and my church clothes were still hanging in my closet. I know it was brisk because my face was pressed against one of the glass doors that looked out on my back yard, and my breath on the panes was turning to frost. I lifted my hand and wiped the glass clean.
I was waiting impatiently to catch a glimpse of the farmer who took care of the large working farm that sat just across my backyard. Once I saw Mrs. Haig out performing farm duties, I was free to head over and ”help” her. Waiting for the go sign was almost unbearable.
I could hear the sheep bleating and the rooster’s unmistakable cock-a-doodle-doo. It was as if the animals were beckoning me. Then it would happen. I would see that tell tale sign of her red bandanna. And I was off. I ran down the stairs of my back deck, and across the yard, navigated a little stonewall, and walked around the farmhouse.
As I stepped into the front yard my pace slowed to a stop. I scanned the view as if my mind was recording a panoramic picture. I have so many vivid memories of this utopia. Everywhere I looked was another adventure. Just to my left was a giant oak tree with a swing. In the warmer weather it was covered in caterpillars. I tried to make them my pets. Unfortunately they never survived.
Between where I stood and the rest of the farm was a wide dirt driveway. A giant garage sat back from the main driveway. It had five bays. It held the big red pick-up that Mrs. Haig used to get around the farm, the Land Rover for off farm outings, and multiple different machines, used for who knows what. But my interest was in what lied beyond the garage.
There were all kinds of pens and barns, and the animals were everywhere. There was a big pasture split into two sections. In one half were the bulls, with their huge horns and muscular physique I always kept my distance. They were quite intimidating. On the other side were the mother cows and their calves. Sometimes I had the privilege of milking them. I still remember the warm sweet taste of the fresh milk.
As I scanned the farm from left to right, the next inhabitants were the pigs. They were housed in two areas. The first was an outdoor pen abutting a barn. This allowed the pigs to enter and exit. The second was a fully enclosed barn. The pigs inside were the young piglets and the mothers nursing their newborns. As I remember myself stepping inside I can feel my nostrils burning. The smell was acrid enough to make my eyes water.
There were many other adventures waiting on the farm. There were sheep and their lambs, geese and ducks, not to mention the wild animals. We used to catch turtles and frogs, snakes, mice. There was even a period when we nursed baby raccoons that had lost their mother. We bottle-fed them until they were able to eat, and set them free on the farm.
There is one group of animals I have yet to mention, the chickens. The chicken coop has always held a special spot in my heart. Collecting the eggs was the first farm duty that Mrs. Haig delegated to me. When she first told me that the chickens laid eggs I was completely confused. As far as I was concerned eggs came from the grocery store. Mrs. Haig explained that hens laid those eggs before they made it to the supermarket.
That was explanation enough for me at the time, so I headed off to the coop. The structure was reminiscent of an oversized doghouse, surrounded by a penned in outdoor area, 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 briefly, 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. As I tailed her inside I took an inventory of her top to bottom. This inventory would become etched in my mind as how the typical farmer should look. Her short hair was covered in a red bandanna. She wore a plaid flannel shirt tucked tightly into stained dirty jeans. On her feet she wore rubber clogs, something akin to Crocs, but long before their time. And she never wore socks. Regardless of the weather I remember her dry cracked heel peeking out between the bottom of her dungarees and the back of her clogs.
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 in the hay, 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. I remember hearing Mrs. Haig’s chuckle. 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.
Curiosity gave Pudding Stone Farm and allure that few places have. Gathering eggs was a simple task, but my mind ran with it. I had so many questions. Do all chickens lay eggs? How do they lay them? Why do they sit on their eggs? Can chickens fly? Why don’t the escape from the pen? That was just the tip of the iceberg. The questions were never-ending.
Every trip I made to the farm was a learning experience. Mrs. Haig answered my endless questions, always encouraging my curiosity. She helped me explore the world around me. She taught me how to shear the sheep and use carding paddles to prepare the wool to be made into yarn. She let me milk the cows and watch the pigs give birth. The adventures were endless.
Curiosity is what fosters interest and motivation. As an adult, the wonder of the farm that mystified me back then does nothing to pique my curiosity now. As a child, curiosity abounds. Almost anything has the potential to be interesting. Everything is new and exciting. It is a world of firsts. I have found that as I’ve aged things become rote, and curiosity fades.
It is not that I’ve completely lost my curiosity. It has just evolved to have a finer focus. I find it important to hold tight to the curiosity I have now. I do my best to ask questions and search for the answers.
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.