A Day on the Farm: Sunrises, Chicken Drama, and Home-Grown Happiness

Alright, so let’s really dig in—I mean, you wanted more details, right? Because honestly, the world of small farming is a whole universe people barely see from the outside. And if I sound a little too jazzed about manure and critters, well, sue me—I think small farms are awesome.

Alright, here’s the deal: you roll over and squint your eyes open, probably drooling a little—let’s be real. Those commercials with people waking up all perfect and smiling? Total fantasy. In real life? It’s usually chaos. Maybe there’s a rooster outside doing his best “look at me!” routine like someone slipped him a double espresso. And if you’re extra blessed, the dog is already up, barking at…honestly, probably air. Or maybe ghosts. Who knows what that dog’s on about. One of our girls will start barking at something outside the window and the other one will start barking...from the other room that doesn't have a window.

You’d think that would put anybody in a bad mood, right? But after a while, you just kinda roll with it (mostly). You stumble out of bed—hair a disaster, socks probably mismatched—because, really, who’s got it together at 6 AM? The wild thing is, even if you’re half-dreaming and still annoyed, that first gulp of morning air hits different. No joke, it’s like nature’s alarm clock and mood booster in one. It’s freezing (or muggy, depending on the season), and that raw, muddy smell hits you right in the face. You just kinda pause, take a deep breath, and—boom, it’s like Mother Nature’s giving you a wake-up slap. Weirdly enough, that little moment does something to your mood. One minute you’re grumbling about whatever—your job, your phone dying, your socks being weirdly damp—and then suddenly, standing there in all that chilly, honest air, you feel…lighter? Like, why was I even mad in the first place?

Sometimes you need that earthy kick to snap you out of your funk. It’s almost like the cold air whispers, “Hey, quit your sulking. There’s bigger stuff out here.” Feels like the universe just tossed you a freebie for, y’know, actually managing to drag yourself out from under the covers. Way better than those stupid candles that smell like “mountain rain” or whatever. Plus, you don’t need to worry about frying a circuit or finding triple-A batteries at 6 a.m. Plants don’t judge, and they sure as hell don’t need an instruction manual.

And coffee—don’t even get me started. Out here, coffee’s not a beverage, it’s basic first aid. You're guarding your old chipped mug like it’s the crown jewels, so don’t even try to touch it. There’s a whole vibe to it—leaning on the porch rail, watching the sky do its thing, pretending you’re a real adult for five minutes before chaos hits. Honestly, it’s the best fake-it-til-you-make-it move out there. It’s five minutes of zen before the chickens launch their daily jailbreak attempt (unless Forrest has already escaped the bachelor pad and is dancing around for the girls). Seriously, chickens are like little feathered criminals. You haven’t lived until you’ve had to wrestle a hen out of a tree at sunrise, still in your pajamas, muttering threats that the chickens obviously ignore.

And sheep? Don’t even get me started. They’ve got this look, like they’re silently judging your whole existence. They’re fluffy, they’re cute, they smile, but they know exactly how to knock over a water bucket at the worst possible moment. Or head slam you, knowing your phone into the water bucket, where it sits for a minute or two until you realize it's in there. Still, you love them for it. Every animal on the farm has its own weird personality.

Veggie patrol is next. You’d be amazed how attached you can get to a row of lettuce. Every sprout feels like a tiny miracle, especially when you remember what that patch looked like after last summer’s heatwave or that time the sheep escaped and went full salad-bar mode on the lettuce. There’s a kind of quiet pride in seeing leafy greens push up through the dirt, bugs be damned.

By noon, you're basically a walking dirt clod—sweat dripping everywhere, hair sticking up at weird angles, and that sunburn? Oh man, it'll have you looking like a human barcode by the end of the week. And your hands? Let's be real, they're never going back to normal. You could scrub 'em with steel wool and still find dirt under your nails three showers later. Honestly, there’s nothing quite like that gritty, stubborn sense of accomplishment you get from wrangling with the land. Seriously, it’s a whole different universe from hammering away at a keyboard, trapped in some lifeless office where the most excitement you get is maybe a jammed printer. Out in the dirt, everything feels more… I don’t know, real? You get mud under your nails, your knees are creaking, but it’s all proof you did something worth remembering. That’s a kind of satisfaction you just can’t fake.

And you start to notice these small, hilarious victories that nobody else would celebrate. Like, you finally get that ancient, cracked hose to work—after it’s sprayed you in the face twice and soaked your socks. Or you pull up a carrot that looks like it barely survived a Michael Bay movie, all twisted and wild, and you can’t help but laugh. I swear, some of these veggies are practically begging for a stand-up routine. You look at them and just lose it—maybe you even show your neighbor and now you’re both cackling over a mutant potato. Where else does that happen?

Now, weeds? Don’t even get me started. Weeds are like nature’s way of keeping you humble. It’s 10 a.m., the sun’s already turning your shirt into a sweat rag, and you’re out there wrestling roots that act like they pay rent. Sometimes I catch myself having full-on arguments with dandelions—“Not today, you little jerk”—as if the weeds are going to back down out of respect. You end up cursing, grumbling, maybe even talking to yourself, but weirdly, it’s like free therapy. Beats yelling at your laptop, anyway.

Honestly, there’s something wonderful about the chaos—bugs dive-bombing your face, your back screaming at you (but hey, you kind of love it?), mud caked everywhere and you just stop caring. You drag yourself through the door, hands filthy, dirt wedged so deep under your nails you’ll need a chisel to get it out. Your brain’s buzzing with weird little stories from the day—stuff you can’t make up. Honestly? I’ll take that over zoning out in front of a dead-eyed screen, fighting with a stubborn cursor, or suffering through another endless, pointless email chain. Give me a sunburn and some mud any day. Out there, a busted-up knee or a sunburnt nose or that lopsided carrot you dug up? Feels like you earned your stripes.

And the thing is, it’s not even about growing the biggest tomato or having a garden that looks like something off Instagram—nah, it’s about the small victories that nobody else really sees. Like, who else is gonna appreciate that you finally managed to keep the slugs out of your lettuce this year? Or that the birds didn’t get every last berry for once? You can’t help but crack up at yourself, cursing out the rain like it’s got some personal vendetta, just accepting that your nails are probably gonna be green until the end of time. I mean, at this point, green’s just the new normal. Maybe I’ll start a trend—“garden chic,” anyone?

Truth be told, there are days when you’re knee-deep in mud, rain pelting sideways into your face, and you’re just standing there like, “Seriously? This is my life now?” Your boots squish with every step, basically filled with something that can only be described as swamp juice, and you start considering other hobbies—like indoor yoga, or maybe just napping.

But then, outta nowhere, you catch this sharp, sweet whiff of basil. Or you tug on a carrot, bracing for it to look like some bizarre alien, but nope—it actually resembles a real carrot. It’s this tiny, stupid victory, but man, it just hits different. Give me a garden over a spreadsheet any day. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for all the ergonomic desk chairs in the world.

Let’s just pause and talk about harvest season, yeah? There’s literally nothing like it. You’re out there, palms practically sweating summer, snatching up tomatoes that still sizzle from the sun. The basket’s basically throwing in the towel, but hey, who stops at “enough”? Not you. One more tomato. Always. They’re spilling out, rolling around by your feet, but you just keep cramming them in—like you’re gonna run out of daylight or something. Knowing those beauties are about to end up in someone’s homemade sauce or get eaten right out of the bag on the way home. That’s a major “hell yeah, I did that” moment. It’s not just food. It’s bragging rights. It’s proof you grew something from basically dirt and hope.

And then there’s the market—it’s half work, half therapy. You get to chat up random folks, swap secret tricks for not burning roasted veggies, or hear stories about some kid who flat-out refuses any carrot that isn’t yours. I mean, come on, if that doesn’t make all the mosquito bites and muddy knees worth it, I don’t know what does. You start to realize, these veggies, they’re not just produce—they’re tiny ambassadors. You meet people you’d never bump into otherwise. Suddenly you’re arguing about the best way to eat a turnip or making plans to trade recipes. Sometimes you even get hugs. True story.

Afternoons on the farm are their own weird brand of magic. If the universe is feeling generous, you might actually catch a break. Or, let’s be real, you just shovel cold mac and cheese right outta the pan and collapse under a tree with a book you won’t even pretend to finish—because nap time sneaks up and wins every time. The silence?  Yeah, that’s the real jackpot. Wind’s got this lazy hum in the trees, bees doing their best tiny Harley impression, maybe some distant tractor grumbling like an old man’s stomach. Feels like the world just, I dunno, takes a breather alongside you. It’s not the fake kind of silence where someone’s about to spring a surprise meeting on you or your phone’s going nuts with notifications.

Those little moments of time when your hands are all messy—tomato guts everywhere, dirt under your fingernails—and you just pause, like, “Wait, nobody’s yelling for me?" The world’s not on fire. It’s almost weird, how rare that is. You notice stuff you’d usually miss—the way the sunlight looks almost syrupy over the leaves, or how the bees just don’t care about anything but the next flower. You get these five guilt-free minutes to just… exist. Not race through a to-do list, not solve the world’s problems, just sit in the middle of it all, breathing and maybe thinking about what you’ll do with all these tomatoes (probably more than you can eat, but hey, that’s tomorrow’s problem). You get a weird kind of pride mixed with gratitude—like yeah, life’s messy, but this patch of earth is mine. And sometimes, that’s exactly enough.

You’re just vibing, picking a tomato here and there, feeling like a gardening superstar. Next thing you know—boom—your kitchen is drowning in tomatoes and you’re googling “What do I do with 47 tomatoes at once.” No joke, you look at your garden and it’s like some weird red avalanche hit your backyard. Tomatoes on the counter, tomatoes in your pockets (don’t ask), tomatoes rolling under the fridge. Dogs trying to eat them before they get picked up. It’s chaos.

Honestly, you start getting a little desperate. You’re searching for recipes you never thought you’d need, just to keep things interesting. Roasted tomato salsa? Absolute game-changer, you’ll want to put it on everything. Tomato jam? Kinda weird, but actually not bad on toast. But then there’s the dark side—pickled tomatoes. Don’t do it. Seriously, I’m saving you from yourself here. They sound quirky, but trust me, you’ll end up with a jar of regret in your fridge, and even your most tomato-loving friends won’t touch ‘em.

And if you think you can pawn some off on the neighbors, good luck. They’re hiding from you. You show up with a basket and suddenly everyone’s “not home.” Happens every year. Tomato season: it’s a wild ride.

Now you’re living in full-on preservation mode. Canning jars are all over the counter. You’ve got towels draped everywhere, and you're praying the lids actually seal this time. Meanwhile, you’re slicing and drying tomatoes on every spare inch of space—windowsills, radiators, heck, the dog’s looking nervous. You’ve got the dehydrator running 24/7, your freezer’s so jam-packed you have to brace yourself every time you open the door—just in case something launches out at you.

Evenings roll around and it’s time for the official animal roll call. There’s always a chicken missing, hiding somewhere absurd (I'm looking at you, Pinecone, hiding under the sheep shed, scaring me that something's happened), or the turkey has decided to sleep in the liliac bush (thanks, Misty). Every night is a mini adventure—plus, you get the world’s best sunsets as a backdrop. It’s a whole vibe, wrapping up the day while the sky does its dramatic color show.

Then comes dinner, the grand finale, eventually. At 9 PM. The meal might be simple—fried eggs, fresh tomatoes, maybe a hunk of homemade bread—but when you’ve raised or grown every bit of it? Feels like a feast. Everyone’s gathered, swapping stories, teasing each other, maybe griping about chores, but also laughing about that one sheep who tried to eat a glove.

After everything’s harvested and the tools are tossed back in the shed, you can’t help but just stand there, sore all over, hands filthy, maybe a bug bite or three—totally wiped out, yet buzzing inside. Feeding your own family with stuff you yanked out of the ground yourself? That’s a kind of pride they just can’t teach you in school. There’s this wild mix of gratitude, disbelief—like, “Wait, I actually grew this?”—and underneath it all, a stubborn little voice already plotting, “Yeah, let’s go again tomorrow. Why not?”

Truth is, small farming isn’t some Instagram dream. It’s a glorious, muddy, stress-fueled circus. It’s your kid chasing chickens while you’re tangled in tomato vines. It’s thunderstorms wrecking your plans, but also sunrises so good they make you forget every crummy thing that went wrong. It’s yelling “dinner’s ready!” from the porch, with food that still has dirt on it. You get scraped up, lose your temper, maybe even cry over a ruined crop—and then you laugh about it later with your people around the kitchen table.

And I’ll tell you what: if you ever get the chance to swap your office chair for a busted wheelbarrow, even just for a day? Stop overthinking—just dive in. Seriously, there’s this energy in the chaos, the nonstop scrambling, those little wins that hit way harder than you’d expect. It’s a total mess, you never really know what’s coming next, but somehow you get hooked. Next thing you know, you’re months deep, actually missing all that beautiful insanity. Weird, right? Office life’s got nothing on a day spent fighting weeds, chasing sunlight, and coming home smelling like fresh-cut grass. Trust me, you’ll never look at a salad the same way again.