Why I Married a Farmer

Two years ago yesterday, I did something I promised myself I would never do: I married a farmer.

I've never in my life made a better decision.

Jacob and I married in front of an historic red barn, with our friends and family surrounding us. The leaves on the cottonwoods were just turning and the air had that unmistakable fall crisp to it. The food came from Jacob's first farming experiment in Big Sandy and the flowers from my first large cut flower garden. It was the beginning of so many things for us.


It's been a flurry of activity around Prairie Heritage Farm. Frost is now old news, Farmers' Market is nearly over, the plastic is on the high tunnel (finally!) due to the help of some very good friends, the barley has been swathed, the storage crops are rolling in, and the greatest crop of all (not for sale) is presumably days away. So here is all that, but in a much prettier format:

Putting on the plastic.

Glorious high tunnel.

Swathing barley.

Pumpkin barrow.

One big onion.

Onion barrow.

Baby undies.


Yes, FROST! deserves the all-caps and exclamation point for both the anguish it causes and the relief it brings. Our winter squash needs (a lot) more time, yet I'm so tired. We'll assess the damage when the tears (of sorrow, of joy) have dried. It happened early this morning. Guess what tonight's low is supposed to be: 50 degrees.

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