Harley Barley

Harley is three and he pretty much acts like it, except for the talking. He's one of those kids who talked early in complete sentences at the age when his brothers were still saying single words and pointing at things. Harley looks for opportunities to use the fancy word constructions he cooks up--"ACTUALLY, Mama, I PREFER the blue sippy cup." In his little sing-song voice. Mostly it's cute.

The way Harley plays out on the farm is this: the bale shredder is his implement. Cliffy has the Bobcat. Jackson has the finger-wheel rake. Earl has the tractor and the barn. I have the house. Pilot (our dog), has the porch. Oliver has his Twisty Billy toy. (Lots of emphatic nodding.) That's how it is. Cinder is his cow. Itty Bitty was Jackson's cow, but she didn't breed back and now he's not sure who his cow is. Maisy is Cliffy's cow. Oliver is too little to have a cow. He can have a chicken. He can have the black chicken. There are two black chickens. Oliver can have both of them and then if one gets run over by the car, he'll still have a black chicken.

Today the older boys were going to help Earl water the heifers. Harley wanted to go too, but by the time I got him dressed, the tanks were all full and they were headed up to the big barn. So the big boys ran ahead and Earl came and got Harley. He marched off as proudly as if he'd just accepted the post as President of All Fun and Important Things, pausing only to give me the Rose Parade wave. At the barn, he helped Earl move the dry cows, waving his arms and saying, "Git," a lot. He held the hose in the water tub for the cows in the maternity pen. He sang a little song to the cows. Then he played in the snow and climbed on the Ranger.

If you ask Harley if farming is fun, he'll say, "Yes!" But then he'll add, "But it's very important," and he'll nod for emphasis.