A Summer Saturday Morning in Ohio

One of my oldest friends got married a couple of weekends ago in northwest Ohio, which gave us the perfect excuse to go home and visit our family and friends.

We arrived in Columbus late one Thursday and departed the following Tuesday morning, early enough so that I was at my desk working by 9:15 a.m. We spent the first half of the long weekend with Paul's family and the latter half with mine.

Since we were in Columbus on a Saturday morning before leaving for the wedding, Paul and I did something we've done only a handful of times since moving to New York: We attended the Worthington Farmers' Market.

Paul's mom has had a table at the market for many years, selling plants, flowers, tomatoes, potatoes and other goodies. When we lived in Columbus, Paul would regularly join his mom in Worthington on Saturday mornings. Despite growing up in the country, I would usually stay in bed. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to visiting the market again, even if it would mean getting up at 6:45 a.m. to get ready, leave and set up before the crowds arrived.

Truth be told, I wasn't much help. I can't tell one plant from the next, and I spent most of the time browsing other booths. And yes, that was me taking a 20 minute break inside the van, reading a magazine. I like to think I provided moral support, but I'm not so sure.

Paul was also excited to buy some beef jerky, which he realized he forgot in his mom's refrigerator as we drove to the airport Tuesday morning. Whoops.

Allergies bothered both Paul and me nearly the whole time we were in Ohio, and being around so many plants and greenery probably didn't help. Sneezing because of nature, however, is eminently better than sneezing because of pollution, as I was doing Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

Growing Up in Northwest Ohio

Most days I don't miss the country. I can do without big yards and vegetable gardens and the real possibility of smacking into a deer whenever I drive after dark.

But I do miss the smell of freshly-mowed grass, the sight of stars late at night and the taste of leftover soybeans after the bulk have been combined and carted away.

I didn't appreciate any of that 10 or 15 years ago. In fact, I was surprised to meet people in college who didn't even know what a soybean stalk looked like. I bet I could find a lot more people like that today.

I grew up on what looks like a typical farm, minus the animals. My parents have the pond, the big red barn. My dad even did a bit of farming when I was a little girl, and I remember riding (and falling asleep) in the combine.

But my mom and her four siblings were raised on a real farm, livestock and all. Many were the Sunday nights we would gather at my grandparents' home, a short 4-mile hop from our own house. I would occasionally venture into the barn, but I mostly kept my distance from the chickens and cows-- especially on butcher day. I took the typical sights of a farm for granted.

On my recent weekend fling to the flatlands of northwest Ohio, my Grandma and Grandpa were baffled about why I would want to photograph their barn or elevator. Mom said I must be a city girl now if I wanted to capture a bail of hay on film.

Maybe. But I can still tell the difference between corn, wheat and beans before any are ankle-high, and I certainly know which of the three should be knee-high by the Fourth of July.