A farmer’s life for me?

By Catherine Amos

Published: July 16, 2008

Poop. There’s a lot of poop. That’s the main thing I remember from horse camp when I was a kid. That, and having to walk down the dusty road from my grandmother’s house in stiff jeans in heat that could melt your face off.

I dreaded horse camp. I was a city girl, so the thought of mucking those sour-smelling, fly-infested, poop-filled stalls made me cringe. I did not care for cleaning up after horses, and I was never great at riding them. Not to mention getting thrown from my horse — in front of everyone’s parents during the end-of-camp show — did not leave me too fond of the animals.

On my first “real” date, I was a junior in high school and the guy took me on a 30-minute drive outside Charlotte. You can imagine my delight when we arrived at a horse pasture. I guess he thought it would be romantic, but my horse managed to scrape up against every tree in our path, ramming my shins into each trunk. The next day, my legs were black and blue.

Not my idea of a good time.

After moving here, I quickly realized that farms were a major part of life in Culpeper. Driving through the majestic countryside as pastures of leafy cornstalks whiz by, I often long to live on one of those plots.

My farmhouse would be shabby-chic, and I would have dogs and horses. Riding bareback on an espresso-brown stallion across a windswept field would be a dream. I could name him Sheriff Roscoe, and we would be inseparable. And he would never run me into trees.

The reality, however, would include me mucking Sheriff Roscoe’s stall afterward. No thanks.

I promise, I really am not a priss. (Everyone I know: stop rolling your eyes.) But I think I’m actually just intimidated by everything that goes into running a farm. Obviously there’s more to it than cleaning up after your animals, and I haven’t the slightest clue about any of it. I’ve never milked a cow, sheared a lamb or operated any type of farm equipment.

Last week, I visited the Bierhuizen’s farm near Mt. Pony and showed up in pointy-toed stilettos and a skirt. Jennifer, wearing Crocs, a T-shirt and coveralls, told me later she thought I looked ridiculous, and rightfully so. Sitting in the still, stale air in the barn, I batted away flies while her sons, Gates, 13, and Ryker, 11, told me about life on a farm.

Hearing about the ailments of sick sheep and cutting off turkeys’ heads wasn’t tempting. But I have a feeling those boys are incredibly more self-sufficient than I ever was at their age.

When I stopped by the CMR Farm Show on Friday, I made sure to dress appropriately. Of course, it didn’t take me two minutes to land a foot in a cow pie.

But seeing those kids show off their months of hard work raising animals amazed me. There was so much pride in their accomplishments, so much learned from their experiences. It almost made me wish I had grown up on a farm. For a moment, I could see myself raising a family in Culpeper, my kids riding horses, our sheep bleating in the pasture.

But then I remembered the poop.

Catherine Amos tends to romanticize what she doesn’t have. She can be reached at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .