The White House, Green Fields, and Big Red Barn

I like to remember. I view my memories in the back of my eyes. A movie just for me. I will remember my sisters as babies after a relative tells them they’ve gotten so big. They have gotten so big. They’ve gotten so big, they say.

For every new aspect of my life. For every important moment, I attach a memory to go along with it. I recall past sunsets at the home of my childhood each time I watch the sun set over the ocean, the bold pinks and oranges fading into blues. 

I like to remember. I am going to remember my childhood, all the way up to the girl I am now, the girl who didn’t want to leave her home.

We didn’t always live in California. Before that we lived in small-town South Dakota, in a house my uncle owned. Before that it was my grandparent’s ranch in Nebraska. In between these two places, the place I remember most, is our farm. The white house, the green fields, the big red barn. The house I belonged, but no longer belong to.

I keep my memories present in my head so they do not become ghosts. Even when I hold them, they still have to say goodbye sometimes. They release one of my arms. This way I can still go back.

One day I will gather my memories and set them aside in my heart. One day I will say goodbye to their constant manifestation in my head. This way I can live in the present. One day I will have to accept that it is time to move on. 

Friends and teachers will say, What happened to that girl? Why did she go? Why did she move so far away?

They will not know that I wish I could go back. To the white house, the green fields, the big red barn. To the memories I hope I never forget.

Buttercup the Cow

A cow is not your typical present to a newborn, but in my family, it just made sense. My grandparents on my fathers side of the family have been cattle ranchers for over 100 years. They own a beautiful sprawling ranch in the sand hills, and raise thousands of cattle there.

My dad is his parent’s youngest son, and they were overjoyed when I was born. They gifted our new little family a cow, specifically a heifer. A heifer is a young female cow, who has not yet given birth. Their new cow was perfectly healthy, with tan fur and short horns. She had long eyelashes to go with her seemingly limitless black eyes, and a soft slimy nose. 

The color and softness of her fur reminded my parents of butter, and she was as lovely as a flower. Therefore, she was named Buttercup. Buttercup was a very good cow, and was the first of my parent’s herd. She had a yellow tag on her ear, and it always reminded me of her name. 

Each time my family visited my grandparent’s ranch, my first priority was to find Buttercup and kiss her wet little nose. She was my best friend in cow form. Buttercup gave birth to many beautiful calves, many of which are still alive today.  Every time I see a tan heifer, I am reminded of Buttercup the cow.

Mud, Mice, and Pink Cowgirl Boots

“Hurry up, let’s go outside,” my sister yelled to me as I searched for my shoes in our family’s farmhouse. “I’m coming!” I yelled back, angrily blowing my overgrown bright blonde bangs out of my face. It was early May, and the grass had just started to reveal itself. The snow was finally starting to melt after the horrendously long winter months that only seem to occur in the midwest. 

After digging through the pile of slightly muddy shoes that always seemed to be stacked by our front door, I found my bright pink cowgirl boots. I plopped down onto my butt, trying to squeeze my feet into the shoes. It seemed to take forever that day, but maybe I was just impatient as most kids are. The shoes felt unusually warm, but it could have been caused by the heater vent by the door. Not daring to take the time to find and put on my jacket, solely focused on getting outside, I flung open the door and ran out to join my sister. The sun was out, but it was still cold enough to turn my bare arms red.

The red arms and a risk of getting a cold seemed to be a fair trade for the exquisite playtime me and my sister were about to experience. I found my sister jumping in the newly created puddles from the melted show in our driveway. A smile found its way onto my chubby cheeks. “Wait for me,” I shrieked. She turned around smiling at me with her equally, if not more, chubby face.

While jumping, the cold water drenching our clothes, I swore I felt something move in my left pink shoe. “Wait, stop,” I said, walking to our porch and taking a seat. I tried to yank my boot off, but it would not budge. “Some help here?” I demanded, glaring at my sister. With her help, the boot came flying off. I looked inside. Nothing. I flipped the boot upside down and started shaking. Something gray and fluffy dropped out, and started to run away. We screamed, then chased the poor little mouse until it ran under the porch. When we later told my mom, she did not believe us.

Pig Rodeo

When I was a little girl, my family lived on a farm in South Dakota. At the time, I had two little sisters, and my mom and dad were still married. The farm was beautiful, with a big red barn, three smaller sheds, a chicken coop, and my mother’s sprawling gardens. Best of all, though, were the animals. We had farm dogs, cats, chickens, two horses and two ponies, and a small pond full of fish. You name an animal, and we probably had it at some point. 

Out of all of these animals, me and my sisters were most fascinated with the two fat pigs. My parents had purchased them around the time that Frozen, the movie, had come out. Therefore, the pigs were named Hans and Kristoff. Even as babies, the pigs were not very cuddly, and would run from us in their pen. (This probably had a lot to do with the fact that me and my sisters were loud and annoying) My sisters and I took delight in this new source of entertainment, and would spend hours inside the large pig pen.

 One hot summer afternoon, after we had swam in our kiddie pool for a few hours, we came up with a spectacular new game. We called it Pig Rodeo. Apparently horses were not enough for us, and we decided to ride the pigs instead. I remember my fearless younger sister running and hopping upon the pig’s back… and flying off seconds later. Once my parents discovered our new game, we were banned from the pig pen. I’m sure the pigs were very happy to see us gone, and I definitely do not blame them.

Evil Geese, Children, and Chickens

Geese are terrifying to me. Their long necks, dragon feet, hard beaks. Their heads are tiny in proportion to their bodies. Geese are modern day evil dinosaurs, ones that have tormented me since I was 3 years old. 

As a small child, my family’s farm had a large, central fenced in field where we kept cows. For a time, we also kept geese in this field. There were six of them. They were bright white with yellow-orange beaks and feet. I do not know why, but these geese had it out for me. Every time I climbed the gate to step foot into the field, the geese came running. They were always in a pack. They were always loudly honking mid pursuit. But what made this even scarier was their ability to fly for short distances.

 With their huge wingspan and surprising speed, I was terrified of these creatures. I rarely dared to enter the field without being accompanied by one of my parents. The few times I entered alone I would be rapidly pursued, and if I was caught, they would try to eat my hair. My parents took pity on me, and sold our evil geese. 

The geese were later replaced with chicks that grew into chickens. The chicks were small enough to fit in your palm, and make adorable chirping sounds in place of demonic honking. When they were fully grown, they gave us light brown eggs in return for leftovers and other scraps of food. Later, in middle school, I had a teacher that hated chickens. Chickens? How could she be scared of chickens?  No part of me will ever be able to relate to her fear, not with geese around.

Childhood Lies

We didn’t always live in California. Before that it was small-town South Dakota, in a house my uncle owned. Before that it was my grandparent’s ranch in Nebraska, which I don’t really remember. But in between these two places, the place I remember most, was our farm. When we lived there, there were 5 of us. By the time we got to California, there were six- Mom, my three younger sisters, my baby half brother, and me. 

The farm in South Dakota was ours, and we didn’t have to pay rent to anybody, or share the street with multiple neighbors, or be careful to not yell while playing outside, and there wasn’t a pool that turns slightly green when its filter  breaks. But even so, we had to move.

The move wasn’t sudden, we had been preparing for over a year. We had to leave slow, selling our horses and pigs, giving the new owners instructions on how to feed and care for our chickens. We left for our uncle’s house in town while still looking for a rental in California.  Mom found one, and so we went to Orange County, far away, on the other side of the country. 

My mom always told us that one day we would plant lavender fields on our land, lavender to sell and make profit on. Our other fields would have goats, goats that make milk for soap. She said that one day Dad would leave the army, and come home to help us. Our family would be complete again, with my father back in the vacant spot at the head of the table, back to fix the horse’s fence, back to cover the chipped sheds with more red paint. This is what my mother would tell herself when things were hard, and this is what I wished for every night before I went to bed. 

But my mother’s words did not happen at all. Our fields became overgrown and my father was not there to cut them down with his red John Deer tractor. My mother spent hours in her gardens trying to free her flowers from the weeds that tried to take away their breath. I helped my grandfather paint the sheds, helped fix the broken fence that my father should have fixed. When my dad eventually returned to his place at the head of the table, the look in his eyes felt vacant. My mom said that Iraq changes people. My mom said that her and dad were getting divorced. So we left our beloved farm, my mom, my three sisters, and me.