On the farm: Why my 30's will trump my 20's

I have been testing 30 out for about five days and if my initial impression in accurate, I think this decade on the farm is going to trump (no pun) the last one.   Don’t get me wrong – a lot of good happened in the last ten years.  I graduated college; got a big kid job, got married, and our two boys were born.  But it’s fairly evident the next decade is going to be much smoother sailing.   

1. I can cook.
    
   I grew up in an area where you could order ANYTHING, literally anything, you wanted for dinner.  That luxury leads to a lack of interest in developing one’s ability to actually cook.  When I moved back to Matt’s hometown in rural Missouri, where the dining out options were pretty limited, I struggled. 
    
   But over the last years I’ve developed a love for cooking!  Not only can I cook dinner, but I can pack it in the truck and serve it to the family – with all four of us jammed in the cab of the combine. 
    
2. I can deal.
    
   Planting season, spraying season, harvest.  Going  stag to weddings and funerals.  The inability to commit to anything any sooner than a few hours before.  Everything being dependent on the weather.  Dirt – on clothes, in my truck, in my house. 
    
   I’ve chilled out on all of the above and learned to deal with this crazy, insane  lifestyle.   Because it’s worth it.
    
3. I can follow directions.
    
   “When you see John’s old tractor, turn east after the next curve,  but before that farm that Joe use to rent.  You’ll come up on a hill and you’ll see Smith’s grain trucks, turn south there and keep going until you hit the old Johnson farm.  You won’t see us from the road but drive back on that field a mile and you’ll see us…”
    
   Yea, that.  I can decipher that while driving down the road with screaming kids and arrive with lunch still hot.
    
4. I know that cows get out.
    
   That dreaded phone call of “your cows are out”.  At first, I used to panic.  Are we going to lose them?  Can we get them back in?  What if someone hits one? 
    
   Then for a while I was questioning his ability to even have cows.  Why do the cows keep getting out? Does he actually know how to build fence?  Maybe we should just stick with sheep?
    
   Now, I just turn the truck around, text whoever was waiting on us, and tell them we will be late, “The cows are out”.  (Our friends have learned to deal too.)    And then I look at Facebook until he gets them back in.   
    
   Because cows get out.  Or at least ours do.
    
5. This place is home.
    
   For a long time, often during the loneliness of planting or harvest, I felt like a stranger in our house, the town.  I would long for Mom and Dad, and friends back home.  I still look forward to visiting friends and family, but this place, this town, this farm we’ve built – its home.