Rooted in dirt: The magic of a growing up on a farm

Some people grow up in the country. Others are shaped by it. My siblings and I were fortunate to grow up in a time and place where being a farm kid meant dirt under our fingernails, scrapes on our knees, falling asleep snuggled up in the heat-houser of an open cab tractor, enjoying a whole lot of freedom and making memories that would last a lifetime.

We grew up in rural America, where gravel and sand roads were our highways and the timber and pastures were our playground.

We rode our banana-seated bikes down sand roads in the Illinois River bottoms, built forts out of whatever we could find, swung from vines across ravines in the timber, fished the creek and ponds and waded in branches. We carried BB guns and pocketknives.

With our cousins, we played kick-the-can and tag until dark, then we would catch lightning bugs and watch for falling stars. We had imaginations, a touch of mischief and the great outdoors.

My sister Debbie was my first best friend. Not quite two years older than me and the first girl in three generations born into the Young family, she was a force of nature.

She was and still is someone I admire, learn from and look up to. Oh, we had our differences, and like most sisters, we could argue over the silliest things. But underneath those little squabbles was something much bigger.

She always had my back, and she still does today. No matter how much we might have fussed at each other at home, I knew she was on my side when it really mattered. Time has only made me appreciate her more.

Debbie and I had two younger siblings, grandparents just a mile down the road, cousins galore, a big extended family and plenty of rural neighbors.

We were surrounded by people who knew us, watched out for us and helped shape who we became. These were our people, our community and the roots that grounded us.

Growing up as we did gave us something impossible to put into words. We learned independence, resourcefulness, resilience and the value of community. Those lessons became part of who we are.

My sister shares the roots, the memories and the understanding of what it means to be a farm kid from Scott County in west-central Illinois.

The 1970s were our salad days. There were creek beds to explore and arrowheads to find. Our biggest worry was getting home as quickly as possible when somebody honked the horn — a long and two shorts — for supper.

We didn’t know we were making memories. We were just being kids, with chores to do, animals to feed and plenty of mischief in between.

We had no cell phones — thank goodness — or video games, just our imaginations and miles of countryside.

Debbie, you’ll always be my big sister, childhood sidekick and ride-or-die. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and I’ve always looked up to you.

We are going to make fabulous old ladies. Happy birthday, Sissy.