Andrea Borsvold: Proud to say I grew up country

I grew up in the country, 11 miles from the nearest town and a quarter mile from my grandparents.

“Neighbors” were always considered anyone within four-wheeler distance (so at least a 5- or 10-mile radius). We ate supper at 7 p.m. because we had homework, chores and outdoor playtime to do. We had to let mom know whenever we left the yard, and curfew was always midnight, because “nothing good ever happens after midnight,” according to my parents.

We didn’t have a working animal or agriculture farm, but we did plant thousands of trees, shingle another building every summer, hand dug sewer lines, moved buildings with tractors, checked trail cams in the fall, and cleared beaver dams from the culvert at the duck pond each year. We ran barefoot every summer until our feet had flattened and tennies felt narrow come school time in the fall. I learned to hunt deer, rabbits, grouse and skunks, as well as field dress or dispose of them properly.

I was raised to appreciate the sun, moon and stars, and shut off the yard light from time to time so the light pollution wouldn’t get in your way of seeing God’s brightest creation — the night sky. Grandma would often remind me that only God controls the weather, so you can find ways to appreciate it and thrive in the six months of winter, or you can be miserable for half your life. Sometimes you have to say “to heck with the dry clothes” and dance in the rain, throw your scarf over your shoulder and march through the blizzard to grandma’s house on Christmas Day, or eat that extra popsicle on a hot summer day so you don’t die of heat stroke.

We made meals from scratch most of the time and kept an extra stock of pantry items for the days between our weekly grocery shopping trips. Town was where we went to church and school, ran our errands, and where some of our friends lived, but the dusty gravel roads were home. With fields and forests between homesteads, mailboxes signaled life at the end of every driveway. When summer storms brought trees and buildings down, friends and neighbors were only a phone call away and always ready to help.

I wasn’t raised on a cul-de-sac with neighborhood kids next door, barking dogs on every corner or streetlights shining through my bedroom window. I grew up in the country, with dirt behind my ears, fresh air in my lungs, responsibilities on the homestead and a sense of pride in the land and the selflessness that good neighbors need.

I’m proud to say I grew up in the country, and I hope my kids feel the same way when they’re grown and move on. We all have to experience the city at some point, but all roads lead you back home again one day.

Andrea Borsvold is a busy homesteading mama of three who loves God, coffee, sewing and the beauty of nature living in northwestern Minnesota.