32850 US-43 STE. B, THOMASVILLE, AL 36784 844-229-8936 GOLDENTAXRELIEF.COM G o l d e n G a z e t t e DECEMBER 2018
R eturning to the F arm A Time for Reflection
To all our readers, I hope you’re having a happy start to the holiday season. Long-time readers of our newsletter will recall that my family has a tradition
I was expected to work. Before I new it, I was driving the tractor, Bush Hogging, and helping with the livestock. With hard work came plenty of memories and
Smarting pretty bad, the bull settled down in a hurry. After having that experience as a 12 year old, the IRS has never seemed all that scary. Of course, right after the incident, my father had to explain to me he’d been joking, and he urged me to jump out of the way next time. Whoops. Having this sort of rustic upbringing meant I took a lot of the skills I picked up for granted. When I moved to San Francisco, I was flabbergasted at how many of my friends and coworkers didn’t know how to change a tire or put up a fence! I was glad for these skills and the work ethic I’d garnered along with them. It’s the only way I could have held two jobs while simultaneously going through grad school.
“We moved onto the property when I was about 8 years old, and from that time on, I was expected to work.”
come Christmas time, where we all head to my dad’s cattle farm. We’ll all take plenty of hay-bale rides, sing carols, and enjoy each other's company. In the brief moments between the merriment, I’ll also be sure to take the time to pause and admire the place that shaped me growing up. My dad’s farm has come up several times in these cover letters, whether talking about the holidays, my father, or my summer work when I was young. So I figured that a place that played such a large part in my life probably warrants some reflection.
valuable life lessons. I’ll never forget the day I had to face down a 2,000-pound Simmental at the age of 12. We’d just gotten the bull from Auburn University, and boy was he temperamental. While we were getting him situated, my dad handed me an ax handle and told me to guard the gate. “If you don’t deal with that bull,” he instructed, “you’ll have to deal with me.” Sure enough, the horned beast decided to try his luck charging me. As afraid as I was, watching that bull barrel toward me, I was honestly more afraid of my dad. So I stood my ground, raised the wooden handle, and gave the animal a few stern licks to the nose.
We moved onto the property when I was about 8 years old, and from that time on,
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