I was raised on a farm in the middle of Montana. God's Country. My Dad harvested grain from the moment he was born. It's in his blood. My mom was and is an excellent cook. She has spent many of her days cooking for guest ranches, where all the city folks would come to experience the life of a cowboy wearing their $400 crocodile skin, newly bought/never worn til then, city slicker cowboy boots. Along with their fancy "city style" cowboy hats. {perfectly shaped, no scuffs, no stains attached hats.} It's quite funny and humorous seeing these people who try to fit in so hard. God bless them. City Slickers.

During my days at the Rossmiler Farms, Inc. place of residence and hard work. My mom would fix lunch for my dad and the hired hands and we'd transport the food out to them in the middle of the field. The best part was that we had an old school bus fixed up inside with a table and bench a restaurant on wheels. The bus was still yellow and black with original paint, and us kids had a hayday getting a ride in it. Talk about the bounciest ride ever, but the people on the receiving end of the food very much appreciated a place to sit and rest and eat outside of the elements of the wheat dust. It kinda reminds me of an old western prairie sort of story. No, we were not hillbillies, although I felt like it sometimes.

"I spied with my little eyes" {Jadin's regularly played travel game} an old, beat up, yellow school bus. Just like the one we had! Except this one was a bit longer, and I was told that there was a whole house in there complete with a potty and drainage pipe protruding out the back end. ew. It took me back to the days of harvest, I couldn't resist the urge to be snap happy.

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