When I met my husband to be, I had been living in Chicago, going to Loyola University, studying business. He'd just come up from Vernon, Wisconsin and was studying finance. He was originally a "cowpoke"--as he called it---and had come from a whole family of cattle ranchers and dairy men. I was a city girl, with trendy clothes and manicured nails. He swore he wasn't interested in farming. He was over it, he said, and was much more interested in hip city life. He swore this to me over coffee meetings, he swore this to me over study sessions, he swore this to me on our first "official date." He swore this during movie outings, movies at home, and even managed to tell me this up to the part when he got me an engagement ring.

When I finally went to meet his family, I knew there would be trouble. Allen's father, PJ (or "Pappy Jack" as he was known), was not the ornery leather faced man I would have expected from a man 40 years eating dust and wrangling cows. He was a blue eyed, soft spoken man of sixty. And a nice man. In fact, all of the staff was nice. And there was 250 acres of prime land with beautiful rolling hills and sunsets. Uh-oh...
"Why don't you want to want to live on a farm again?"
"Because I want to live with you. And you don't like farms."

And to be honest, he was right. How could I, purveyor of the latest hippy fashions, well-read, and addicted to espresso, ever live miles away from the nearest hairdresser, amongst mud and slop? Did I mention there were 80 head of milking cows and roughly 100 beef cattle? Yikes.

These ideas quickly took a backburner though; within a year after our little exchange, we exchanged vows. Allen started a finance job, I started looking at houses, dreaming of perfect suburban happiness. We were barely settled into our quaint semi-urban life when there was a phone call. PJ had a heart attack. Uh-oh....

Two days later, Allen packed his bag for home. Two days after that, he called. PJ had also suffered a minor stroke. This wasn't good. The entire farm was at stake. Did I mind if Allen stayed to run it until he could figure out how to liquidate it all for sale?

WHAT? "Allen, didn't you grow up there your entire life?"
"Yep," he said, in that very droll, calm way that those in the mid-west seem to have.
"But...how can you sell the farm?"
"Because I want to live with you. And you don't like farms."
Uh...oh...did I mention uh-oh?

Within a week, I had packed up our entire city life and came to move to PJ's property. I found it needed some serious dusting and maybe a bit of "a woman's touch." Within two days, I had discarded any thoughts of wearing a dress or, in fact, anything remotely feminine and adopted my "jeans-and-baggy shirt" look until...oh...about last week. Of course, that was twenty years ago.

In the process, I've learned to milk cows (to the GRAND hilarity of some of the ranch hands, on my first try), stuck my hand into places I couldn't repeat, been covered head to toe in mud on regular ocassions, broken a leg dismounting a horse, stepped in more manure than I would have in TWO lifetimes if I lived in the city, saved several calves during birth complications (you're WELCOME), accidentally burned myself several times with the branding iron (again, the ranch hands LOVED this), lived through a flood, had two children (and that was easier than any farm work I'd done up to that point), and GAINED THE RESPECT of everyone I worked with.

None of it meant so much as the love and pride Allen had for me, and his constant encouragement. On our 20th Anniversary, he brought a whole whirlwind package trip to Chicago. For three days, we bustled about the city, taking in fancy restaurants and museums. I was somewhat surprised to find the place too busy, the people a bit rude, and the whole thing overrated.

On the last night there, Allen said, "I still don't know why you would marry a son-of-a-gun like me."
"Easy," I replied. "Because I want to live with you. And I don't like cities."