Family Traditions

Dear Diary,

 Every family has a tradition. But not everyone follows those traditions. Sometimes you get a, how should I say this? A more independent kid. 

 Hey there. My name’s Emily Green. I come from a long, long… long... long, line of farmers. I grew up in the country, and, on the outside, I’m your stereotypical country girl; long braid, freckly face, light tan. I have cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat, and I wear jeans and plaid shirts. But, believe it or not, I don’t want to be a farmer or a ranch hand. I want to be a graphic designer. Unfortunately, my family has a long tradition of farming. It’s been going on since anyone can remember. Maybe one day I’ll be a graphic designer, but until then, I’m stuck as my dad’s fifteen-year-old farmhand. Too old for the easy stuff, but too young for the fun stuff. I just wish I was free to choose my own path, like the heroines from movies.

-Emmie

 My big sister, Allie barged into my room just as I locked my diary in my dresser. “Mornin’ Em!” She said cheerfully. “Bacon and eggs are ready!” She turned and ran back downstairs, and I was right behind her. After a good breakfast, we raced each other to collect eggs from the chicken coops.

 We brought our egg baskets in, full to the brim, and hastily transferred the contents into egg cartons. Together, we filled nine cartons, each with a dozen eggs. 

 Allie went to go milk the cows, and I was stuck with getting hay for the horses. I swear, I almost had it, but before I reached the horse pen, the enormous, wobbly pile of hay on my wheelbarrow toppled over. Onto me. Now if you’ve never felt a bale of hay, you don’t know how heavy they are. I know firsthand how much they weigh, and this was gonna hurt.

 Lucky for me, the strings had come loose, so instead of crushing me, the bales fell apart, burying me in, scratchy, itchy, dusty alfalfa. Some of the dust got up my nose, and I started to sneeze. A deep voice laughed from outside the pile, and a hand found my arm, pulling me out. 

 “Okay, who exploded the horse food?” Tyler asked me teasingly. I rolled my eyes at my big brother and started putting the hey back into the wheelbarrow. I’d have to make multiple trips to move it all into the horse stalls.

 “I didn’t explode it, per se. It tipped over on me, and the strings were loose, so it fell apart.” I carefully opened the gate, and several horses came running over for their food. I dumped the hay in their feeding trough, then went to get the rest of it.

 He helped me load the wheelbarrow up, then kept the horses in their pen as I deposited the last straws into their food, then left them to their business.

 “Don’t you have chores?” I complained. Tyler smirked at me. 

“Nope. All I had to do was feed the horses.” He told me smugly. “Mom wanted you to weed the bushes. But you were too busy collecting eggs, so you didn’t hear her.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” I told him. “I hope you enjoyed your pants.” I grabbed the bucket of pig slop next to us, and threw it on him. He squealed in disgust, sounding just like a little girl who saw a bug. I took off running and sprinted inside.

 Tyler went to follow me, but I ran into the bathroom, locking myself in. I could hear him pounding on the door, so I climbed out the window and weeded the garden.

 It wasn’t hard, and I was done in a few minutes. I managed to scramble up the lattice by my bedroom window and into the safety of my room, right before he came barreling around the corner, having realized I wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. I quietly closed my window so he wouldn’t hear it, then ran downstairs.

 “Hey, mom?” I asked. “I might’ve dumped pig slop on Tyler and now he’s chasing me around. As if on cue, Tyler burst into the kitchen. Mom crossed her arms.

 “Kids, be nice.” She told us. I chuckled inwardly. Now, if Tyler tried to get me back, I could get mom and she would... mom... at him.

 This was the everyday routine at my house, with little to no change. Two years later, I’m still writing in my diary every day. With my eighteenth birthday fast approaching, I’m getting ready to choose my career.

 Tyler graduated from college last year, and, surprise, surprise, he went into animal husbandry. He’s looking at buying the farm next to ours.

 Allie is all about plant biology now, and wants to develop better ways to grow things. So naturally, everybody is expecting me to major in cooking, breeding, or the like. It’s tradition. 

 And lucky me, I’m the black sheep of the family. I want to be a graphic designer! Not an expert egg-collecter! But my parents would never pay for me to get a degree in fine arts.

 The next day, I wake up and check the mail. Miraculously, an art contest I entered months ago has sent me a letter saying that I have won a full scholarship to the university of my choice! Of course, I immediately apply for the best college for a fine arts degree in my area. 

 After a couple of months, I finally leave for college. There, I learn many, many styles of art and graduate top of my class. After four years, I come back to my family’s thriving farm with a bachelors degree in fine arts. 

 My family was not at all angry at me for pursuing my dream. They were happy that I found my place, even though that meant breaking tradition. And now, I work happily at home, designing graphics for book covers, websites, online games, and more. I am married to the man of my dreams, and wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

 And best of all, my two daughters are growing up knowing that they can be whoever or whatever they want. Because I will never stand in their way.