WORKING THE LAND
When I would arrive at the farm, my cousins would say “the city kid is here,” even though I was as suburban as a kid could be. As preteens, my pals and I played football on manicured lawns and slurped Orange Julius at the mall. But to my cousins on the family dairy farm in northern Wisconsin, I was all skyscrapers and polished shoes. I loved those day trips. Within minutes of stepping out of my dad’s Ford Country Squire station wagon, I’d be riding a pony, hunting squirrels in the woods with a .22 or playing hide-and-seek in the cornfield. By the time I was 14, summer trips to the farm became work outings, and they lasted for days. Baling hay and stacking it in the barn, milking the cows,…