My city slicker friends won’t get this, especially not the ones who are born-and-bred suburbanites or urbanites. And that’s okay; different strokes for different folks. As I prepare to embark on the next chapter of my life, a chapter wrapped in urban life, a one-bedroom apartment downtown, I’m more sentimental than ever about rural life. I’m thrilled for the next step, but I also know that the fond memories I have now of these wide open spaces and familiar places will have to last me a little longer.
The road my mom and stepdad live on.
I’ve been listening to one song on repeat a lot lately. Usually, I’m in the car with the windows down, the wind whipping my hair, sunglasses on and my left arm (which is now a darker shade of “pale” than my right arm) resting on the edge of the driver side window. And, I’m usually on a wide open road, tar-and-chip or gravel or dirt.
I’ve only ever owned one dog…unless you count that pointer puppy that showed up at our house and hung out for a few hours, until my mom realized that he belonged to some folks down the road. So, excluding that, I’ve only ever owned one dog. I’m a senior in college, and I still look forward to a trip to my parents’ house to see my beloved fuzzball again.
The oldest digital picture I have of she and myself. That was junior year of high school, before my Winter Ball. I was 16, and Chewy was 8.
My last few posts have been pretty heavy in the serious stuff lately, so I decided it was time to lighten things up a bit. This blog is a somewhat manic blend of somewhat unrelated topics: internships, growing up, careers…and agriculture. So, of course, I have a little party inside of my head every time I can cross those things together. Without further ado, this is Kelly M. Rivard’s __ Signs That You Grew Up in the Country.