When my grandpa was a teenager, around 15, he found himself driving a tractor down an old dirt road, wondering about his future. He thought about if he'd marry and have kids, and how that would be. He wondered what kind of jobs he'd take. Would he stay on the farm in North Dakota, or would he go to college and end up in the city, possibly in another state? Would he have grand kids? If so, how would they turn out?

53 years later, at the age of 15, I found myself behind the wheel of the same tractor, with my grandpa sitting on the wheel well just behind me, telling me stories from when he was a kid as I slowly drove the tractor across the open pasture. I was helping out on the farm, clearing out old trees. The soil was struggling to hold so many trees in one place, and many of the trees were dying and posing a major threat to the old house.

After carefully bringing down the trees with the tractor and some rope, and sawing them into pieces, I drove the tractor with the grapple and carefully carried logs and branches to the burn piles in the pasture, where I dumped them. It didn't take me long to figure out the tractor, although I still wanted my grandpa just behind me in case something went wrong. That tractor was nearly 60 years old, and I wasn't about to trust it completely. I could never be too cautious while working with heavy equipment. 

I really enjoyed my hours behind the wheel of that old cab-less tractor. I sat tall in the tractor above the waving sea of golden green grass, under a deep blue sky, with the smell of diesel exhaust mixed in with the sweet scent of prairie grasses and canola that was carried along the wind. The weather was almost perfect. It was just too windy to wear my hat forward, so I had to squint for most of the time I was in the tractor, and I had to flip the tractor around before dumping the trees into the junk pile, or else I'd get a face full of dust, leaves, and ash. Even then, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I loved every minute of it, and the hours went by in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, my job was done, the sun was sinking below the western horizon, and dinner was ready. 

I was starving by the time I was seated for dinner, which I didn't realize until the smell of roast beef basically sucker-punched me as I walked into the house, but my great-aunt already assumed that I would be. She had enough food to feed an army. I had worked hard alongside my grandpa and great uncles, as well as every farmhand and neighbor that decided to help us out as well. And while I was teased a little bit for being a city girl, no one actually called me a city slicker. In fact, they really enjoyed my help. 

To reward me, my great uncle Courtney took me out shooting the next day, using the pile of logs as a place to staple some paper targets up. I shot everything from the .243 I'd eventually use to hunt my first pronghorn, to an AR-15 with high-tech laser sights I never used before until then. Courtney coached me on how to shoot from nearly every shooting position, including using a forked stick as a makeshift standing tripod, in case I found myself hunting in some tall brush. We had a blast. In fact, we were having so much fun, that we didn't realize we had left the stapler on top of one of the logs we were shooting at. When we decided to replace the old targets with new targets, my uncle's eyes widened with the realization that he left the stapler on one of the logs, and when we came back to it, it had a nice bullet hole shot through the end of it. 

I couldn't stop thinking about how amazing it felt to be in the tractor, and how much fun it was to use the results of our hard work as a gun range. It felt like I belonged there, like I was right where God wanted me to be. And, I remember pondering my own future as I drove back and fourth between the farm and the pasture, just like my grandpa had done 53 years earlier. Ever since my first day on the tractor, I've considered doing it as a career.

Why waste so much money and so many years getting a college degree, only to make near-minimum wage in an office cubicle, struggling to pay off debt, when I could learn how to operate a few tractors and get up to $80,000 out the gate in my city? To me, it seemed like a no-brainer. And according to my dad (who has worked closely with construction all of his working life, and spent a few years driving tractors), it would be the best thing I could possibly do for myself if I could do it. 

Truth is, I'm no city girl. Sure, I was born and raised in the city of Denver, but I've spent my life trying to get away from it. The city life just doesn't sit well with me. I'd much rather spend my life on the farm, than pent up in some cubicle or dealing with hundreds of people everyday, taking anti-depressants like candy. In fact, every job I've taken until very recently has been out in the country. It was mostly volunteer work, but I loved it. I still love it, and I still volunteer myself to do farm work whenever I can. 

When I was 12 years old, my weekend hobby for awhile was going to the local horse rescue early in the morning, and helping to feed and clean up after 70+ rescue horses. I was usually home by 10:30 am, smelling like a horse and covered in mud from the waist down, but I loved it. I loved to work with the horses, talk with the other volunteers, and feel the soreness set in after a few hours. Back then, I was very strong and fit for my age, and I took pride in that.

I had the upper body strength to toss 60 pound bales into hay lofts, and I could clean out a large horse pen in 25 minutes if I tried. Sure, my parents didn't always appreciate the fact that I smelled like horses, and that smell would linger for a few days, but they knew that what I was doing was healthy for me in every way possible. They would much rather have a healthy daughter than a clean-smelling car. I'm sure every parent would agree. 

I did that volunteer work, on and off, for several years. In fact, I still do it. At Clarke's house, sometimes his roommates will leave for a week, leaving the job of feeding and cleaning up after the horses up to me if I'm around. I was pretty surprised and flattered when they asked me to watch over their horses the first time. They never trusted just anyone to do it, because their horses weren't the most well-behaved or easiest to work with, but I must've proven myself enough to them to get the job. I'm still not sure how, but I'm not about to complain. 

But working with horses hasn't been my only job. I still get behind the tractor every time I make it to my grandpa's childhood farm in North Dakota, and grandpa still sits behind me just in case. He probably saved me when I broke the gear-stick the last time I was on the tractor. I was lucky that day. When a gear-stick breaks in 4th gear, it's not easy to get that into neutral, and it's nearly impossible to do it smoothly. I was close to being bucked off the tractor, and if I didn't have the upper-body strength I had, I would've fallen just in front of the rear tire, as the tractor continued to lurch forward. 

My great uncle Delton made fun of me for that when it was all over. He laughed saying, "Sie hat die Hände eines Ochsen!", which roughly translates to, "She has hands of an ox!", once he fixed the gear stick. My North Dakotan family is very German, and when my grandpa was a teenager, he did what I did to the tractor, and the neighbor had said the same thing about him in German. That still didn't kill the satisfaction I got from the work I did that day, and it actually wasn't entirely my fault that the gear stick broke (there was a loose bolt that fell out), but it did make me reflect long and hard on the dangers of working with tractors.

Incidents like that are the incidents that make me question my idea of pursuing farm work and/or construction as a career. Farm work and construction, while fulfilling, are extremely demanding and dangerous. And I was born into a body that isn't always up to hard work like that. Sure, it would be good for me when I'm well, but what about when I get sick? 

That's the question that drove me to try out other things that are indoors and much easier to do. I interned at my mom's work for $100 a month. My insurance actually forced me into it, and their dumb rules make it impossible for me to make any actual money. At least I don't have to pay taxes, but I can't save more than $2000 in a bank account, unless I want to lose my insurance. If I lose my insurance, I wouldn't live long. 

My work involves filing papers in the basement of the mansion my mom works at. It's quiet and away from everyone else, but it is lonely, and it does get old pretty fast. At least I know how to do the work well and efficiently, so I can get out sooner than later. However, as of now, I'm still getting paid, but there is no work for me. So, I just get $100 a month for free, which actually makes me feel pretty bad. I want to work if I'm gonna get paid, even if my boss doesn't care if I work or not. I still find my current job pretty boring and easy (when the job is actually there for me), but it's a job I should have if I get too sick to work out on the tractor. With CF, I never know when the next infection will pop up. 

I expressed this worry to my dad, who suggested that we should combine the jobs together if I was that worried. At first, I didn't really understand what he meant. Filing papers alone in a creepy basement and working outside on a tractor are two completely different and unrelated jobs. What would combine the two together and still pay me pretty well? Well, my dad's answer to that was, working a forklift in a warehouse. 

I've never thought of that before, let alone even sat in a forklift before, but it makes sense. I could spend my days driving a forklift around a warehouse, stocking shelves and moving things from place to place. I would still be away from most people and be indoors, but at least I'd be driving around in something that's a little like a tractor. Sure, I wouldn't be outside everyday helping to build things, but at the same time, I wouldn't be stuck in one place for too long. I guess I'll just have to take my dad's offer to train me, and see how I like it. 

I find myself getting bored and jittery after two hours of filing papers in the dungeon (I mean basement), because I don't go anywhere except from the stack of papers on one side of the room, to the filing cabinet on the other side. I work under bright office lights in a brick, windowless room underground, with only music and podcasts to keep me company. I couldn't do it much longer than I do it now. There's no way in hell. 

I love the country life, but my health won't always let me work on the farm. I'll always get infections from time to time, that will force me to take weeks, even months off to take care of myself. It's frustrating. That's a major thing I hate about having CF. But that's also why I take advantage of the days that I'm well, because when I'm well, I'm very useful and enjoy hard, physical work. 

Sure, it's dangerous work. I've been nearly kicked by unruly horses many times, and tractors aren't known for being safe. But I already live in constant danger. Life with Cystic Fibrosis isn't safe. Life in general isn't safe. I just have to weigh the risks and the benefits, and see if it's worth it. To me, a life in an office is no life at all, and I don't have the patience or the will to deal with people like a teacher or a professor does. I also can't be a doctor, because I would catch everyone's infections and die within five years of becoming a doctor. 

With graduation coming up, I'm feeling the stress of my near-future more than ever. I guess pretty much everyone my age feels the same way I do, which is comforting in a way, but I have fears and dreams that drive me like nothing else. I know I cannot survive pent up in a cubicle, and spending 30 years working on the farm isn't very realistic either. But life on the tractor is still very appealing to me. Chances are, if I do decide to do that kind of work, it would be part time for a few weeks in the spring and fall on the family farm. Sure, I probably wouldn't be paid $20 an hour, but it would still be worth it. 

Maybe being a full-time author isn't a bad idea after all, just as long as it doesn't force me into the dreaded office cubicle or drown me in debt. My dream job would be getting a decent salary for what I do now, which is go on adventures during the day, and write during the night. But, I know that isn't the most realistic job ever. Yet, I refuse to believe I have to work construction or rack up impressive debt at college to have a fulfilling career that will keep me alive and well.