Did you achieve your goal? Did your dreams come true?
We all have dreams of the future. Dreams of where we want to be when we “grow up.” Sometimes the path we think our life will take turns out to be far different than anything we have imagined.
A child’s hope for his or her fabulous future is a beautiful haze of ideas and wishes. As we grow up, we soon discover those childhood dreams entwined with fairy tales are rarely fleshed out and set in stone. The lovely fairy tales tangle with reality, and reality muddles magical beliefs.
For example, I used to tell anyone who cared to listen to my childish ramblings that I was a princess. We are not talking about the typical fantasy of many a young girl who envisions herself as a Disney princess. Oh no. This certainty is because of my family’s lineage on my mother’s side.
My mother is a descendant of a famous17th-century Hungarian prince, Imre Thököly. As it happens, his daughter’s name was the same as mine, Erzsébet or Elizabeth. Historical prince notwithstanding, the reason I claimed to be a princess is that my maternal grandfather was a Hungarian Duke. Unfortunately, like countless other European folks of royal blood, he was penniless with a royal title.
Due to childish misconceptions, I believed the daughter and granddaughter of a Duke was a princess. In actuality, the correct title for such female descendants is Lady, as in Lady Elizabeth. So the kid got it wrong. It was a harmless fantasy.
The pauper Duke’s daughter married a brilliant but untitled professor. Their convoluted and difficult path led them to America, and eventually to the State of Oklahoma. It was there that their daughter, the self-proclaimed princess, met her Oklahoma knight in shining armor, Hubby.
Although we lived in suburbia for most of our married life, Hubby yearned to return to his roots and live in the country. He wanted to buy land, plant a garden and raise critters usually found on a farm. The only obstacle to Hubby’s dream was we had little time to search for that home in the country.
Once in a while, the family managed to find time to take the scenic route. Driving aimlessly on country roads, looking for that dream farm. On one such drive, our daughter asked, “Mommy, which one is the funny farm?”
Perhaps you wonder what made her ask that question. Sometimes children managed to hit that last functioning nerve, and on those occasions, I would tell them, “If you kids don’t behave, I’m going to end up at the funny farm.”
Eventually, Hubby realized his dream, a place we named the Funny Farm. But our work schedules allowed little time for gardens and farm animals. Then one day he planted a small garden. Each year the garden increased in size to the point the lady lugged produce to work and shared the bounty with coworkers.
The shocker came when Hubby built a sizable chicken coop and filled it with chickens, lots of chickens. Contrary to my urban raised misconceptions, chickens do not wander around and lay eggs for us to enjoy. There is considerable upkeep required to care for those cluckers.
Nowadays, this former princess and self-proclaimed lady of the manor hauls chicken feed from the storage shed to the chicken coop. Tosses “scratch” which she refers to as chicken snacks. With surgical glove covered hands, she pokes around the nests Hubby built and collect eggs on a daily basis, regardless of the weather.
Since the chickens moved to the Funny Farm, the lady of the manor discovered several names for eggs — cackleberries, butt nuggets, and even chicken sh*t. None of the nicknames sound appetizing, so she sticks with calling the chicken products, eggs.
All is well until the time comes to trudge outside for what the lady refers to as the daily chicken sh*t ritual.
Oh, how low the mighty princess has fallen?
Follow Elizabeth Cowan on Twitter @LizCowan4. Visit her updated website: www.elizabethcowan.com, stay a while and browse. Like her cheeky and entertaining Facebook author page: www.facebook.com/Liz.Cowan.Author. Books available on amazon.com.
Humor Books: Fractured Proverbs and Twisted Thoughts; Through the Keyhole