Essay sent....29º

I selected the first 15 pages, attached it to the email and hit send! Now this month I can look forward to revising with Katey's critique my "Beauty School Essay".

I remember that year in beauty school as a fun time in my life although at the time all I could think of was getting it over with...Wishing my life away! The following is the start of my essay, yes I've changed it again! OWAV:)

Beauty school seemed a strange choice as a career for a farm girl.  Every morning since I was 10 years old, I answered my Dad’s morning call, “Della it is time to milk the cows.” “Coming Dad,” I said, as I groaned, rolled over and slowly climbed out of my warm bed. Still groggy from sleep, I pulled on the cold “chore clothes” struggled into rubber boots, coat, hat and mittens and trudged toward the barn. Every day started like this and the rest of the day depending on the season saw me riding a horse, driving a tractor as I mowed and raked a hayfield, splitting and hauling wood, or cleaning barns and chicken coops. I loved this life with the smells that awoke my senses daily, from the barnyard “aroma” to the smell of Daisy my favorite cow, as I leaned my head into her warm flank and she gratefully gave down her milk to fill the bucket held between my knees. The smell of fresh mown alfalfa or the soft cry of a new born lamb or calf and the feel of their soft noses as they nuzzled me, thinking I had a bottle for them. This lifestyle had instilled a sense of responsibility and a strong work ethic in me. It had also shown me that farming was a gambling way of life. A good crop depended largely on the weather. Animals could die suddenly, leaving you with a corpse to bury and no profit, only another loss. There were no guaranteed paychecks, money had to be borrowed every spring to finance another crop that might or might not make it. I watched my parents struggle to make a living, trying to get ahead and out from under the never ending debt. Just recently they made the decision to put the ranch up for sale.

Love and caring abounded in our modest, comfortable home. Our table was laden with the best food, all home grown. Our clothes, not the latest style, were warm, clean and mended, but the security of a regular paycheck was not there. At age 17 I wanted that.