Given my near-worship of all things agricultural, it’s entirely possible that I was born into the wrong century. Or perhaps I just read too much Little House on the Prairie as a child.
For weeks I looked forward to our local dairy’s annual open barn, an opportunity to tour the facilities, meet the cows, and eat ice cream. This delightfully rural event had been noted on my calendar for over a month, and I’d mentioned it dozens of times to friends and family members. Early last week I began a mental cow countdown and by Friday evening I was practically bursting with anticipation. “Guess what tomorrow is,” I eagerly prompted Chris. But after three lame guesses (one of which he actually wasted on “Saturday”) it became clear that he’d forgotten all about the cows and he was therefore forced to endure yet another round of my open barn enthusiasm.
Chris looked somewhat crestfallen. “I thought you said I didn’t have to go,” he sighed. Which I did, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might not want to go. I mean helloooooo? cows. “You can see cows anywhere,” Chris pointed out. “True, but these cows make our milk,” I countered.