Frances Farmer

I can picture someone named Frances Farmer. I picture her as someone who gets up at 4:30 in the morning and immediately gets on her knees to thank God for all of her blessings. She sweeps the kitchen floor (which she does just out of habit and to think about her day to come, because she already swept it the night before).

She starts the breakfast, oatmeal with milk that was milked from the cow the previous morning, homemade biscuits, with sausage gravy. She makes the children's lunches. She sets the wood table and wakes the children. Her husband comes in from having just fed the chickens and milked the cows. They then say grace and eat breakfast as a family. There is no TV, no Nintendo or playstation. The children grab their book bags and lunches. Then they head out the door to walk the long dirt road to the bus stop. They head to school.

Frances Farmer kisses her husband who heads out to the fields to begin his long day. She then starts her chores. She'll start the bread dough; she'll need it and let it begin to rise. She'll have to do all of the laundry, clean the house, wash the dishes and vacuum the floors. She'll then have to make lunch for her husband and get dinner started. She takes the milk that her husband brought in earlier from the cow and make homemade butter and cottage cheese and puts the bread into the oven to bake. She makes the beds and tidies the rest of the house.

Then the children will return home from school. She'll help them with their homework and put the finishing touches on dinner. After dinner, she'll do the dishes and sweep the floor. She'll read to the children and tuck them into bed. She'll rub her husband's sore tired shoulders and they all go to bed early. How do I know so much about Frances Farmer? Because I had a Frances Farmer for a mother once. I miss her and that style of life.