Moving to a farm changes you, sometimes in subtle ways, sometimes not so subtle. Just the other day I was standing on a street corner in the city and I heard the sound of a horse talking to another horse on a distant block. I asked the coworker I was with, “What was that?” He was completely perplexed.
“What do you mean?”
“That horse.” I turned around and about a block away, there was a police horse, a draft type, actually, yelling at another horse out of view. My coworker had not even noticed and was surprised that there was a horse there, especially a big one. He was not attuned to a sound that I hear everyday.
I heard that sound tonight, as I do most nights. My little quarterhorse wanted me to let him out so he could go hang out with the drafts. We have to put him in an enclosed stable so that Meme, the draft mare, won’t steal all his food. This means that I have to let him out when he gets done and he usually lets me know exactly when that is. Regularly, it seems to be at the most inopportune times.
I have to run outside in muck boots and whatever I happen to have on. Sometimes that’s farm attire, sometimes it’s my nice work clothes, sometimes it’s the nightgown. When I lived in the city, I was fashoinable. Now that I’m in the country, things just get mish-mashed together. I’ve gone from fashion plate to more fashion relish tray.
Half my closet is full of workclothes and my nice casual attire, fit to wear to dinner. The other half contains clothes that I can get dirty, with impunity. Inevitably, though, I rationalize my ability to stay clean in my work clothes while walking into the horse paddock. I think, “I’ll just dash in, pick up the feed bucket and get out of there before I get splooged on.” Nope, that never works. Mud knows no boundries.
So, some garment from the nice side of the closet gets moved over to the farm side, and I have to go shopping. Again. I hate shopping…