I Was Taken From My Real Family and Raised by Wolves

I was an Old MacDonald child born into an IBM family. My brothers and I grew up being chauffeured around in one of those station wagons that had a third seat facing backwards. Looking out that big window, I not only got to breathe in a little exhaust once in a while, but I was able to take in expanses of land before it would disappear from view.

Along the stretches of highway, I would see property with fenced land and think how wonderful it would be to have a pumpkin patch right out here where everyone would see it and want to stop by. It could come complete with crisp cornstalks flanking the entry to straw bale mazes.

Looking back, I’m certain that my parents were masochists as they kept moving us to the suburbs that rested just on the shoulders of farmland. They carefully chose housing developments that seemed to always bring me within feet of my true love. I spent my weekends walking to nearby farms, pretending they were mine for a while.

When I shuffled back to my side of the fence, I was determined to create my own little farm. As I dug into the hard pan soil of our backyard, the difference in the freshly cultivated earth of the neighboring land was clear. Would it have really been a stretch to move one street away? But, I digress.

When I was ten, I snagged some Dixie cups from the upstairs bathroom and filled them with some potting soil out of a bag my mother had bought to top off the planters in our yard. Using a hand shovel, I carefully scooped up some small seedlings (I would later learn that they are called “volunteers”) in our yard and transplanted them.

Being raised by entrepreneurs, my instincts told me there was a profit to be made. I lined probably fifty of those little paper cups into my younger brother’s red wagon and rolled down the street selling them door to door for ten cents each. Looking back, I realize I made a 100% profit since I had zero start-up cost and no overhead (considering my mom’s “donations” and the fact that being underage, legally, I was assured overhead until I was eighteen).

With over three decades of plants and soil behind me, I am very sure of just who it is I am.

Contact me: chris@asuburbanfarmer.com
Follow me on Twitter: @Suburban_Farmer