We got away this week for a much needed summer vacation. The cool of Up North was beckoning during a very gray and rainy Florida week. It was kismet. My girl loves Michigan and everything it represents. To her, Michigan is dirt roads, red barns, and open fields. It’s the same Michigan of my childhood.
Growing up on a dirt road has it’s perks. If you look past the constant dust drifting through the open doors and learn to dodge the potholes that could swallow a car whole, you’ll see the simple beauty of a country dirt road. I grew up just down the road from the Shetler’s dairy farm and each trip home is christened with a trip to “the farm” for their insanely delicious chocolate milk. It’s the bees knees, no joke. This trip I added a jug of Moocacino and have since plotted a thousand ways to talk them into shipping to Florida. It’s life changing stuff, that moocacino.
There is something simplistic, yet extravagant about walking onto a dairy farm that has been around longer than you can remember. About picking up those thick glass milk jugs and hearing them clink against the wire milk basket, all the while knowing how much these cows mean to the family who raises them. In a time when dairy farms have gone the way of factories, it’s comforting to know that there are honest farmers who still care for their cows by hand and give each and every one of them a name.
I don’t even drink cow milk. Our home made the switch to almond milk years ago, but when I’m at Shetler’s, I’m a dairy milk kind of girl. It’s something about knowing the cows and seeing for myself their all natural process that makes me comfortable with their goodness.
I could stare at this picture all day. Moooooo.
Plus the farm is just fun. I smile and shake my head while watching Daniela attempt to feed the baby cows. Each time a wet nose gets close to her little hand, she jerks it back with a little jump, which of course startles the little cow and they both eye each other wearily. My sweet beach girl, adorably scared of baby cows.
The memories we’re making warm my heart. This week spent with family, watching my daughter frolic around my childhood domain; it’s mind blowing. And like the dirt road that never changes, the sound of her laughter in the cool Northern Michigan wind never gets old.
Dreaming of garden fairies and enchanting summer sprites
I love my Florida home and wouldn’t live anywhere else, but Northern Michigan runs through my blood and will always be a deep rooted part of me. Watching it cast it’s mysterious spell on my own girl makes me feel complete in a very Pocahontas sort of way. Colors of the Wind, people.