Who dreams of canning vegetables and picking strawberries in patched overalls?
Why do I keep thinking about wrap-around porches and sun tea and riding horses?
Will I give a speech when my squash wins at the county fair?
I get emotional about a rustic smell that will become familiar after we've spent the afternoon splitting fence posts and baling hay.
Calico will be my fabric of choice. Followed closely by gingham. Burlap for the flour sacks. Because we will have those, dammit.
I want to dance to Brooks and Chesney without it being a joke.
Wheat will be in my mouth at all times, except when I am kissing my toned shirtless farmer at sunset whose skin can be found somewhere between dirt and sweat.
There will be barn parties and early morning suns with handmade quilts and fresh black coffee enjoyed in a rocking chair.
There will always be cold lemonade in a mason jar for the weary traveler, and trips to town will be a planned affair.
Perhaps an RV, just in case the farm life gets old.
But I don't think it will. And anyway, maybe thats the point?
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