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?
