10/17/2026
My Origin Story:
I have thought about this story for a while, debated on how to write it and if I even wanted to share it. This is a compilation of stories I have been told over the years mixed with my interpretation. I could have it all wrong, but this is what I think happened.
Let’s go back to the summer of 1983.
Imagine a mid 20s young lady, covering herself in olive oil because there was no fear of the sun at the time, laying out in her front yard on a lawn chair. She had planned this sunning event around when the logger would be next door, taking down trees and working. She was attempting to get his attention. Her long legs glistening in the sunlight surely would catch his eye. He was an 18-year-old young man, fresh out of high school, working on clearing land as his job. With a pick up truck and a chainsaw, he must have been the girls dream. I don’t know how the conversation started but it led to him taking her out on a date. A simple McDonalds dinner. 2 Big Macs and they were in love. 3 weeks later, they were married. Yeah, that seems quick to me also.
His parents put up the money to get them a single-wide in a park a few towns over. She had her little house, a job and a man to take care of her. He had a place to call his own and the woman he thought was the one. They had each other and started their lives together.
The first time he hit her I would think she was scared, trembling in the corner. The second and third time I bet she was mad. All the times after that, I learned she eventually blamed herself. She didn’t tell anyone, but everyone knew.
She was pregnant by the next summer. I like to think she was excited but can not confirm. They were picking out names- he wanted Ophelia (only he knows why), and she wanted Maranda (after her fathers mother). I am thankful every day she won that fight, although I wonder sometimes what she had to sacrifice for it. The story goes that when he was mad while she was pregnant, he would focus his anger on her belly. Maybe it was an attempt to end the pregnancy, maybe he didn’t know how to communicate his anxiety. Either way, there were fears that the baby wouldn’t survive.
On an October day, she went into labor- or so she thought. She got herself to the hospital, called him to tell him to come for the birth. Turns out she was having Braxton Hicks or false labor. He had left work and came for nothing. This sent him into a rage she hadn’t seen before. She took one of her worst beatings yet when they got home.
A few days later, when her water actually broke and she was in real labor- I can imagine the level of hope that it was real and that the baby was still alive. They took home a healthy baby. Their family was started. Though the violence continued so did the household. They welcomed a baby boy a few years later. Then the family was complete.
The reason I wanted to write this down was to see how far I have come. I think about the violence aimed at me before I took a breath and how I could have been a tragedy for them instead of a child. I exist when I probably shouldn’t.
This year for my birthday, I remember that fate is a choice. What we were supposed to be was an option. I am more than a child that grew up in violence. I outran the repetitive story of obedience and submission. I ran to being my own person, having my own farm and business. I will keep pushing for what I want and how I want my life to be. I exist for that reason. I exist to be a farmer with a few stories.
