"He’s one of the good ones."

— Gabby Barrett

Of the two million farms in the United States, 36% are hobby farms. On these farms, tractors originally invented for plowing fields serve as mowers and pull tillers. In addition to tractors, animals also serve as essential helpers: dogs herd and guard, while cats hunt crop-destroying rodents. Deep down, I know my father is a hobby farmer. In a western Minneapolis suburb, my family’s hobby farm had been dwarfed by growing neighborhoods and townhomes. It seemed a well-hidden secret; no passing eyes could tell we had a farm hidden amongst the trees.

As a young girl, I sat at my father’s feet while he perched higher in the cushioned seat of his zero-turn lawn mower, his hands firm on the grip bar. The mower vibrated beneath me as I played with my toys while he maneuvered around the pasture.

Many years later, at another house, it was my turn in that seat. He demonstrated how to steer. Easy enough, right? I crept around the circular part of the driveway until I ran directly over the yard lights. I knew he had a temper, but this wasn’t one of those times. Instead, he quietly waited for me to stop.

“This isn’t for me,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he replied. “You’ll learn.”

I never drove the lawnmower again.

He also owned a green John Deere garden tractor with three speeds: turtle, rabbit, and somewhere in between. This machine had more purpose than the mower, so my sister and I had better acquaint ourselves with it. During the fall months, we spent our days in the woods tossing the logs he chopped into the tractor’s trailer, later stacking them in the garage to heat the house through the winter.

The tractor served not only as a bridge between my father, my sister, and me, but also as his connection to our dogs. Despite his initial hesitation toward pets, they became his steady outdoor companions. Misty, a German Shepherd intended as a gift for my mother, became my father’s sidekick instead. At our cabin and in the Boundary Waters, Misty would lean over the edge of the fishing boat, waiting for a tug on the line so she could alert my father.

Another companion is our recent German Shepherd, Heidi, who can’t stand it when he goes outside without her. She loves retrieving fallen sticks he throws in the woods or digging in the dirt alongside him as he plants in the garden. She is also his snuggle buddy on the couch, happy to give him a kiss or nap beside him.

Our family also had barn and indoor cats, toward whom my dad had been even more hesitant. Yet he didn’t hesitate one winter night when three kittens were born in our barn.

My father had been feeding the animals and cleaning before he came inside with three kittens tucked into his snowsuit pocket. He first went to my mother, who believed he was holding dead creatures, and then brought them to my sister and me. In our confusion, we were told the three frozen kittens were thawing out. They had nearly frozen right after birth, and it became my responsibility to raise them before they returned to the barn.

Of all the cats that have remained with us through the years, it is a fat black cat named Thomas who captured his heart. Thomas had been my sister’s cat and sole responsibility until she moved out. After that, he attached himself to my father. Early in the morning, Thomas would wake him with the soft swat of a paw. At night, he would wait for my father to feed him, stand guard while he ate around the dogs, and curl up beside him in bed.

Though my father loved our dogs and cats, what he truly wanted were chickens. They were the one animal he believed would make him a true farmer—just as he felt when marrying my mother, the farmer’s daughter.

When the chicken market boomed during quarantine, my father thought it was finally time.

“They could stay in the dog kennel,” he suggested.

“The dogs would chase and scare them,” my mother countered.

My father pressed on: “They can stay in my toolshed.”

Both ideas were reasonable enough. The kennel had its own shed, perfect for supplies, and the outdoor run offered plenty of space. Or the old blue tool shed he had dragged from our previous house could work—with proper rearranging of his gardening tools, the chickens could live comfortably there.

Sadly, the closest my father ever got to owning chickens was through family. His father, who still lived in the countryside, kept chickens. One of his brothers raised chickens to keep his daughter company. And my mother’s brother lived on a farm filled with chickens and pigs.

It is much easier to appreciate what we had after time has passed, rather than recognizing it in the quiet routine of the present. Now, as I sit surrounded by electronics, I wish for that gentle nudge from my father to get outside—to help him on the tractor, toss a ball for the dogs, or stroke the purring cat beside his chair.

Ashley Malecha is a writer and poetry editor who lives on the Mississippi River. She holds a Bachelor's degree in English-Creative Writing, and her work has been published in a variety of literary magazines, including The Otherworld Magazine, Lunae Literature & Review, and phenomena. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading and spending time with her two dogs and two cats. She also serves as a Volunteer Poetry Editor for Antler Velvet.