“Some see weeds, others see wishes.”
The saying caught my eye. It was printed on a simple piece of barn wood, the white fluffy tufts of the dandelion delicately woven by a local artist at the Funky Junk Boutique in Seville.
I know I’ve written about it before but when one is put to the test, then one realizes if they have the glass-half-full or glass-half-empty perspective. Do they see weeds or wishes?
For years, I had dreamed about living on a small farm and being able to see my horse in the field while I drank my coffee inside a cozy kitchen.
That dream came true in 2012, when we found 16 acres of pristine land dotted with pine trees, fields of timothy grass and a small grape arbor.
How I had longed for the solitude of the country, but three days after we moved in, I noticed the noise from Route 224, which ran along the back of the property.
Cars, 18-wheelers and teenagers driving without mufflers to the high school a half-mile away created a cacophony that nearly took all of the water out of my half-full glass.
“Where is my peaceful and quiet country life?” I cried to myself.
Just then, I was reminded of many years before when we had first moved to Medina. Our home sat a quarter of a mile off the road and was surrounded by trees. Our closest neighbor was the gurgling west branch of the Rocky River which ran across the back of our property.
Eager to show it off, we gave a tour to everyone and anyone and it was someone, as we ended on the deck where I pointed out you could hear nothing but the river, who said “I think I hear a motorcycle.”
And they were right, in the glass-half-empty way of thinking. But I had chosen not to hear it.
Now standing on the farm, I had a choice as to whether I wanted to hear that traffic or not. I made up my mind that day I would not.
For two and a half years, I loved that little farm and all the ups and downs that went with it. Once in a while, I would hear that traffic but only for a minute. It became a like a tonic to me, knowing that despite the seeming seclusion, the world was alive and well on the other side of the tree line.
Well, we all know that life changes, and this time the change led me to a small 1933 bungalow on a little street in a little village in Medina County.
I spent the first few days sad over what I had to give up, but I put on my big-girl pants and took out a glass and filled it halfway with whiskey (just kidding) and decided that I liked what I heard and what I saw.
I can’t have my horse (he’s back at the barn where I boarded for years) but I can have chickens. Up to eight hens but absolutely no roosters, which I don’t have a problem with because they have no respect for the girls.
I can still hear train whistles in the distance but now I hear church bells at noon and 6 p.m. Can someone say Norman Rockwell?
I have neighbors in every direction and I’ve met a few of them so far. Sally and Robert, Gloria the neighborhood “watch lady” and the young family next door that loves my German shepherd.
I can walk to a diner for breakfast and hit up the library on foot, too.
I can see sunrises from my front porch and sunsets from my deck and farm fields from my bedroom window. I can still see pines but now I don’t have to pick up the sticky pine cones, and this summer it will only take me about 45 minutes to cut my grass without that harrowing zero-turn mower.
And I will drink a half glass full of lemonade and I won’t see dandelions. I’ll see wishes.
Contact Robin Swoboda at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.