Wonderfully Woven invites parents from all walks of life to share their unique parenting experience. We offer support by sharing different perspectives, through interviews and storytelling.
Parenting is my favorite thing in the entire world. I’ve learned to love in a way I never knew was possible over the last 20 years. And one thing that always fascinates me, is that no matter what our core differences are, every time I meet another parent we usually find common ground through telling stories about our own kids. It becomes clear how we love them, how we fumble around, and mostly that we are all just trying to do the best we can do for them.
We’ll focus on everything from birth stories, to tween and teen angst, and ever evolving relationships with adult children. We’ll share stories that are authentic, sometimes difficult, and many times fun. My hope is that this little spot will entertain, inspire, and foster lots of love.
My first post, an editorial written by my very own mama, was published in my hometown newspaper in 1982. In many ways her approach to parenting is much different than mine, but it’s still relatable. She’s been married to my dad for 58 years, they raised six kids on a farm in northern Indiana. She ruled with an iron fist most of the time, but makes the best chocolate zucchini cake, can sew a pleat in a cheerleader’s skirt like nobody’s business, took endless school board calls, and will always have an open door for a kid who needs a safe space.
Unlike my mom, I am a single parent, raising my kids in a college town. I don’t drive a tractor or can my own food, I drive a Honda to pick up Chinese take-out on my way home from my job on campus. I try to be authentic with my kids, and often find myself allowing them to make many of their own decisions, often successfully, and sometimes really successfully after a few mistakes were made. We’re learning as we go.
I will always be inspired by her love, tenacity, and pink strapless terry cloth jumpsuit she wore home from the hospital, after giving birth to my youngest sister.
I love this article because it’s beautiful and was a great creative outlet for my mom, while she was in the thick of parenting. In many ways that is what this blog is for me.
Judy Berenda: Experiences as a Farm Wife in 1982 and how the Role has Changed.
By Judy Berenda
My most pleasant memories of early childhood were spent in a huge old gray house on my great grandfather’s farm. I would sit next to my grandmother and snap green beans, shell peas, or swing on the porch swing. She would tell me stories about cooking for thrashers, hired men that lived upstairs during harvest, and money problems during the great depression. There were always dogs, cats, baby chickens, baby calves, and mean bulls. There was a broken tractor, a drunk hired man, or a bad snowstorm to contend with. Grandpa could take care of everything. Dad and my uncle farmed the “home place” and some rented land. As time passed a baby sister and a pony completed our farm family. Sisters and ponies are alike in the fact that they both behave when one’s mother is around! On summer days I sat in my secret apple tree hide-out and knew life couldn’t be better. We weren’t rich but life was secure. I would grow up and become a cowgirl; I would be the boss on a ranch.
As I approached adolescence my horizons expanded. My classmates and I went to a larger school. Dad rented more ground, and we moved. I learned farm life was hard work, I watered hogs, fed 4-H steers, mowed the yard, and learned how to cook and sew. We also had fun. Any lunch could turn into a picnic, I still had my apple tree hide-out and good friends were only a bike ride away. Country church bells on a clear Sunday morning assured me life was good . Late at night I could hear Mom and Dad talking; changes were ahead. My parents bought a farm close to the “home-place” and we moved. Dad saw an opportunity working in town, so he rented out his beloved land. The January morning of our farm sale I went to school hoping I would die that day. How could my parents throw away the glory of tilling the land? I didn’t realize they were changing their lifestyle to better their family farm.
As I became a teenager I decided that farm women were dull and old fashioned in their cotton dresses. I was sure driving a pick-up truck wasn’t for me. I would save the world but would note be bored by feeding it. I went through my teenage years and married a guy just as idealistic as myself. The Vietnam War was raging and our best friend was killed in the service. When my husband left for Ft. Leonard Wood my life was chaotic. I returned to the family farm. The land had become more serene and beautiful than I remembered.
Our first child was born; Dick returned to college and the farm. I began working in the field and I knew my life was perfect. Our second daughter was born and I was back on the tractor in four days. The babysitter would hang out a flag when it was time to feed Melissa. Dick and I grew from our mistakes, life couldn’t be better! Our first boy came in a January storm. Dick slept through his son’s birth because he was tired from delivering baby calves. I didn’t feel neglected because the cows demanded his time, it was a fact of farm life.
The next two children came and I know I was meant to be a farm wife. Two days before Natalie was born we finished plowing the “home place.” I got off the tractor and picked up a handful of rich black dirt. I was once again humbled by the partnership between God and farm people. Just like the three generations of farm women before me the land is my second love. We will fight floods, hail, drought, Japanese beetles, and Uncle Sam’s estate tax, but we will survive!
Farm families are shrinking in numbers yet we are producing more and more food. As a farm wife I shudder to see trees cut down and not replaced, fences torn out, ground farmed ditch to ditch, and empty barns. Where are the stewards of our soil?
At our farm, days begin early and often supper is late. My daughters help me snap beans, shell peas, and can or freeze our own fruits and vegetables. The girls are also dancers, guitar players, ball players (unheard of in Grandma’s youth), and cheerleaders. As they groom their 4-H calves they dream of dancing on Broadway or becoming veterinarians. There is still a secret place in the tree at the “home place.” Our 8 and 10 year old son’s Collie dog is running toward the house. Before I heard their story I knew they had encountered a skunk!
Like generations of farm women before me I am unemployed, as I cook for numerous people, have a hospital for pets, clean a large house, play in the hay with my children, mow, fish, roam the land, and help them ride their pony. They rejoice at the birth of kittens and cry at the death of a pet rabbit. They learn of nature the hard way. Even as I write this I see Wade in the future, in his farm house. But now I’m mowing huge yards, working long hours in the fields, and provide chauffeur service. Sometimes I am resentful. I wonder what a 40 hour work week and a regular paycheck would be like. Then early one morning I look at the corn peeking through the ground, or smell fresh cut hay, or help my husband dry off a newborn calf and again I am humbled. Tears come to my eyes and I know what life is all about.
Yes, I drive the pick-up to town in my old jeans and boots. I worry about poor grain prices, high interest rates, and the weather. The farm is not a place for all women; you must become a partner to the man you love. I will encourage my children to look into other occupations as they grow older. Some, perhaps all of my daughters will leave the farm, but like their mother some will return. Farm wives’ roles will continue to expand. We will see more farms and ranches run by women. My grandmother is gone now but not forgotten. One day I will sit on a porch swing with my granddaughter and form that special bond we farm women have to hold onto the “home place.”
Wonderfully Woven 