A short farming story for early readers.

Ben loved the rhythm of the farmโ€”the smell of sun-warmed hay, the gentle lowing of cows at milking time, the clucking of hens greeting the dawnโ€”even the steady hum of his grandfather’s tractor. All of it was music to his ears. Lately, however, there was a buzz in his head, a pressure to be someone he wasn’t quite sure how to be. Was this what growing up felt like? It was baffling.

Ben was different from most other farm kids. He loved helping his grandfather tend to the animals and plant the fields. Still, he also loved getting lost in his sketchbook or tinkering with old tools to build whimsical inventions. He preferred the call of the meadowlarks to the noisy chatter at the school bus stop. The other kids found him strange, and Ben started to believe them.

One spring afternoon, Ben discovered a weathered box behind a hay bale in the barn. Inside was a leather-bound journal with faded, loopy handwriting nestled among yellowed papers. It belonged to his great-grandfather, a young farmer venturing into the same land Ben knew so well. The journal writer referred to himself as Farmer Will, the Dreamer, and he wrote about โ€œthe wisdom of the soil.โ€

Ben reads the journal in the barn

Intrigued, Ben curled up in a patch of sunlight and began to read. Farmer Will wasn’t just a farmer. He sculpted with wood, wrote poems inspired by sunsets, and crafted elaborate birdhouses resembling tiny castles. His great-grandfather’s imagination was as big as the wide-open fields.

So, Farmer Will was different, too. He talked about the bravery it took for him to find his way in the world. Those words settled into Ben like a cool drink on a sweltering day. A spark ignited within Ben. It was okay to be different, to be yourself! Could he be a farmer, dreamer, builder, and observer? He began to think about tools not just for farm chores but for creating. He saw the hay bales as not just feed but the building blocks of a magnificent fort. The farm, once boringly familiar, was now bursting with possibilities.

Ben started small. He turned an old tire into a swing, not just for fun but with gears and ropes that made it spin like a carousel. Next, Ben started a small vegetable patch. Preparing the soil and planting the seeds was hard work, but Ben had ideas for a roadside farm stand that he would manage. Spending money!

Ben proudly sells garden produce at the farm stand in our farming story

One long afternoon working in his vegetable garden, Ben reached the end of a row, weeding young corn plants. His hands ached, and the old doubts crept inโ€”whispers about quitting, taking a break, maybe playing video games. He shut his eyes, picturing his great-grandfather’s words, the strength of his own heart song. When he opened his eyes, a flash of yellow caught his eyeโ€”a meadowlark perched on a fence post, singing a cheerful tune. A smile spread across Ben’s face, and he finished the job with a burst of energy.

The Meadowlark sings on a fencepost

As he helped his grandfather plant the new season’s crops, Ben no longer saw it as a chore but an act of creation. It wasn’t about being stuck; it was about being rooted.

Each day, Ben noticed small wonders, like the morning dew clinging to a spider’s web, the way freshly turned earth smelled like rain, and how wildflowers sprouted bravely between rows of corn.

Wildflowers spring up between corn rows

One day, the old tractor sputtered and died in the middle of the field. Ben’s grandfather sighed, a worried crease on his brow. Remembering an old engine he’d tinkered with in the shed, Ben had an idea. As Ben worked with the old tractor engine, his grandfather watched with curiosity and pride. Ben’s face lit up with a grin when the engine roared to life.

His grandfather placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You’ve got a gift, son,” he said, “Reminds me of your great-grandfather. He was always dreaming up new ideas, seeing things differently.” 

Ben works to fix an old tractor

Ben felt a lump in his throat. “You really think so, Grandpa?” 

His grandfather nodded. “I know so. The farm needs someone like you who can imagine a better way of doing things. Don’t ever lose that spark, Ben.” 

Ben blinked back tears, his heart swelling with pride and purpose. At that moment, he knew he belonged here on the farm, just as he was.

Ben was still a farm boy, heart and soul. But he also wore his uniqueness like a badge of honor. His dreams weren’t about riding off on a horse at sunset. They were about the quiet joy of muddy boots, the satisfaction of a good day’s work, and sharing his true self with the people he cared about. Ben discovered that his true adventure wasn’t somewhere elseโ€”it was inside of him the whole time.

As the sun began to set over the fields, Ben found himself back in the old barn, settled in the same patch of sunlight where he’d first discovered Farmer Will’s journal. He pulled out his own weathered sketchbook, its pages now filled with designs for clever contraptions to make farm work easier. Ben smiled, remembering how lost and unsure he’d felt the day he found the journal and how much he’d wanted to fit in. 

As Ben looked out at the farmโ€”his great-grandfather’s land, his family’s legacyโ€”he was proud to be a dreamer, a tinkerer, a farmer in his own way. Ben put pencil to paper and began to sketch, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the page. In the distance, a meadowlark sang its sweet song.

A Meadowlark sings at sunset

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