Farm-girl Freedom

There’s a song by Alan Jackson that says, She’s gone country, look at them boots. She’s gone country, back to her roots. She’s gone country, a new kind of suit. She’s gone country, here she comes.”

You know what? I like that.

There’s a lot of freedom in going country.

I love throwing on my rubber boots and trekking out to the coop in the morning to let out the girls. My hair isn’t done. My pajama pants are still on. And my face hasn’t seen a slick of paint. It’s a beautiful thing…maybe not for my neighbors, but for me…it’s refreshing.

My mother lived on a farm until age five, and my father grew up on a full-fledged hobby farm.
I believe that country blood filtered into my veins:

Age Nine
We moved to the farming city of Hamilton. While our house was being built, we rented a small house on a pig farm.

Five months later, we moved into our home across from a cow farm. On the lot next to us was a field of tall weeds. I decided to make a fort using my dad’s clippers. I cut out a spot and put down a blanket. It was fanciful fun until I noticed that I had company. Hanging inches from my head was a large yellow and black spider and a white and brown-striped one was crawling up my leg.

Sister Carmen styling in her jeans.
Me, trying to be a pig whisperer



Age Ten
My dad taught me how to shoot a 22 rifle. He also taught me that when the safety is off, I had to keep it pointed at the ground and not at my sister. (What can I say? I was hyper.)
Dad also taught me how to fish and bait my own hook.
Aunt Sandy’s horse obstacle day

Age Eleven 
My Aunt Sandy, who has a horse farm, taught me how to ride.
Age Fourteen
I mucked out my first horse stable at a friend’s house.

Age Seventeen
I got bucked off a horse named Hershey. (But I rode that sucker for a good three minutes before he jolted me into the cornfield!)




Age Twenty-Six

I rode with my 21-month daughter on a horse named Midnight.
Age Twenty-Seven
Cordero Family Farm began with two hens and six chicks. 
Tiffany and Lily
The Little Girls

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