It all started when I was in the office telling some friends that I would be going home for Easter Weekend. One of them told me to say “Hi” to the goats for her.
“Sheep,” I corrected her.
“Wait, you live on a farm?” asked another.
And somehow, everyone in the department believes that living 5.7 acres, being from Boerne, TX, and having sheep constitutes living on a farm. My arduous attempts to disuade this notion led to nothing.
“This makes so much sense,” said my associate editor.
My eyes rolled.
But I came home to my siblings playing washers in the backyard.
We helped my dad out with yard work and drove a tractor/lawn mower.
And my mother makes her own peanut butter.