I didn’t grow up on a farm, though I have lived in at least one farm house while I was a kid. It was when my family first moved to Tennessee in 1989 (wow, it’s been 22 years!) and we moved into a house in Morrison that was owned by a certain Tennessee senator. It was such a culture shock moving from the mean streets of Paterson, NJ (Lafayette Street for those familiar with the area) to the quiet reality that was my existence for a full year. New school, new kids (same old meanness, though, for those who were different), new pace of life. I wasn’t a Christian at a time. I believed that just because I was born and baptized as an infant I had a straight ticket to heaven. The Lord has since corrected me on that view-point in the intervening years. I still look back at my time in Morrison with some fondness, though. Our nearest neighbor was 3/4 of a mile away with a nice stand of trees in between our homes. It was quiet aside from the insects and it had a certain peaceful quality to it. I still remember laying in the grass and staring up at the stars one night, watching the sky as it seemed to pivot around. That’s not a view I’ve been able to get even where my parents live now. Too much light pollution, too much air pollution, too many people living too close together.

Part of me wouldn’t mind going back to that farm and putting a nice house on it and living there with my lovely wife. Let the field grow up with weeds and trees affording us even more privacy while the lawn around the house was nicely manicured with a smallish veggie garden and some nice flowers planted willy-nilly. The other part of me, though, doesn’t really miss it that much and finds urban life just fine in Smithville. Who knows, perhaps there is a happy medium that God will provide for us. Until then, I will just have to rely on my memories of that time on the farm.

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