Sitting beneath a white canopy with daisies on the tables at
Jackson Family Farm, one of the few dairies left in Meridian, I could see why
they were still here.
It’s all about rolling with it.
When Cindy Miller from the United Dairymen of Idaho viewed
the charming place, she thought it the perfect setting for brunch, and the
Jacksons were okay with that. They were already offering tours.
“We visited just a couple of months ago,” Cindy told the
brunchers, “and this yard was filled with lilacs. It was incredible.”
There’s something very honest about dining in the back yard
of a home that’s hosted more family parties than even the family could tally.
Though times have changed, the Jacksons continue to have a Fourth of July celebrations on the shady stretch of grass behind the original home, where grandparents
Stanley and Hazel built a life.
“If my dad could see us all right now,” said Brent Jackson,
son of Stanley, “He’d probably say, ‘Why are you all just sitting around? There’s
work to be done’.”
We laughed, knowing the type.
“But my mother, Hazel,” Brent said with a kind of
tenderness,“she’d just love this. She held a lot of family gatherings right
here on this same spot, and she would think it was great.”
Brent also informed us that his mornings started hours
before most of ours did.
“Cows need to be milked, and they calve whenever they calve,”
he grinned, as those in attendance with agricultural backgrounds nodded.
There was something so soothing about sitting amongst people
who had their favorite types of cows, (the sociable Jersey wins by popular vote), who talk
about which high school FFA program was the one to watch and whose dairies
were doing innovative things to keep going, all while sipping chocolate milk and enjoying a farm fresh egg, tart and fruity yogurt, and savoring cheddar-y hash browned potatoes.
Gentle breezes, country music, and contented conversation
blended into the farm-fresh air, and for the first time since my big home move,
I felt relaxed and happy.
“I’m just so glad I got to go to the Iditarod,” Idaho
Magazine publisher Kitty Fleischman was telling me, “When I had that blasted
heart attack last year, that’s what came to me. That more than anything, I told
God I wanted to see the Iditarod one more time.”
She relayed how a friend with thousands of
frequent flyer miles saved up offered Kitty and her husband tickets to Alaska,
asking her what season she’d like to visit.
Typical of Kitty, she replied, “Are you, kiddin’ me? In the
summer you can’t see the Northern Lights, it’s light all the time, and there’s no
Iditarod. Give me winter!”
But Kitty was going to be in Fairbanks, and the Iditarod
started in Anchorage. Except for this year, there was no snow in Anchorage, and
you can’t have an Iditarod on no snow. Since there was snow in Fairbanks, that’s
where the Iditarod began. And Kitty’s prayer to see the Iditarod again was
answered.
“The Iditarod came to me,”
she said, her eyes misting a little.
That sort of real-ness, in the setting of decades of
good, hard work reminded me that life in all its forms was really pretty
magnificent. That the several people around our table were making a difference
to all of us, directly or indirectly. Two were agriculture instructors who
taught around 400 kids about all things crops, some were with the state
agricultural department, and some, like Kitty and I, told their stories.
Sometimes it’s tough to convey through words the glow on farm
wife Laura Jackson’s face when talking about giving up California for deep
Idaho family ties and a simpler lifestyle, or the gleeful expression of ten-year-old Dylan Jackson demonstrating how
to roll down the ditch in his tractor-like go kart. The fragrance and scratchy feel of hay
just on the other side of your jeans as you sit with thirteen others on bales
atop a trailer being pulled by a John Deere tractor. The mirthful expression of
Brent Jackson’s son, Clint, who’s found his second calling as tour guide and
stand-up comedian.
“Hi, Amy!” another friendly United Dairymen of Idaho
employee called out from atop a hay bale. They’d been greeting me since my
first steps into the place. This lady couldn’t move her head, because another
United Dairymen employee was French braiding her locks.
“Getting your hair done, I see,” I smiled back at her.
“Hi, Amy,” said another employee, “I’m Danni.”
I thought Danni said she was helping with the TasteIdaho
agri-tour event in October.
“You’ll have to watch that one on the agri-tour,” I fake-whispered,
pointing over at Kitty, who was sitting innocently on a bale at the back of the
trailer, “She’s trouble.”
During the hayride, we learned about the sustainability
going on. Tree and landscaping branches that would typically be taken to the
dump are put through shredders to create good mulch for the ground cows stood
on, wicking moisture away and providing softer standing areas. When asked about the feline population, Clint quipped,
“That’s yet to be determined,” then added, “On this farm we have a catch and
release policy when it comes to the cats. You catch ‘em, and are not allowed to
release them until you get back to your place.”
A perfectly timed comment, as we were pulled past open
stalls typically used as a maternity ward. A tiny brown-and-white-spotted calf
had made its dairy farm debut that day. In the adjoining stall reclined an
entitled-looking black and white cat, causing predictions that she, too, might be
anticipating her own Labor Day.
The new calf was adorable, everyone agreed.
“Did you see that placenta lying over in the corner?” a
visitor asked.
“T.M.I.,” I said in a juvenile way, but didn’t care, “That’s
way too much farm for me.”
Departure from the hayride led to the feeding table
containing Dixie cups pre-measured by Dylan (the same one that showed me how to ride the tractor/ go kart deal down the ditch) with feed for the hungry goats and llama.
“This one’s greedy,” commented visitor Nancy Buffington, as a goat crowded in on his pen mate, aggressively going after
palm after palm of morsels.
We got to pet the young calves, too, and one took a liking
to me. Knowing there was hand sanitizer nearby, I relished the cuteness of the calf licking my hands and jeans. Both were washable.
It wasn’t until my new friend Nancy was taking a picture for
me that the calf decided to kick things up a notch by biting my leg through the
material.
“Not okay!” I told it, and it went back to licking mode.
“I was licked by a cow today,” I thought to myself, “I
wonder how many people could say that during a regular workday.”
I had also fed a llama.
“Hi, Amy,” Tony Harrison said, extending his hand, “I’m the
one who’s emailed you about the TasteIdaho agri-tour reservations.”
As we chatted about random things, I happened to mention
where our former acreage was. Tony lived on that same road.
“Wait a minute,” I said, getting ready to throw out one very
long shot, “Is your daughter named…”
His daughter and my daughter had sat by each other on the
bus for years.
“Our daughters used to play together!” I laughed, “I’ve been
to your house before, and I’ve even met you and your wife before.”
Brunch, new friends, animals to pet, and neighbors-past.
To top it all off, the United Dairymen of Idaho sent us all
home with swag bags.
It was a beautiful day on the farm.
*For more on the Jackson Family Farm, see this great Meridian Press article.
