Marko Butkovic

The barn smelled of fresh hay and warm animals, a scent I’ve known since I could walk. It was dusk, and the sky outside glowed a soft orange as I leaned against the old wooden door, watching the cows settle for the evening. My life has been rooted here, on this farm in the gentle hills of Croatia. Forty years of work have left my hands calloused and my back stiff, but they’ve also given me something far greater—perspective.

People often say I’ve been lucky. Maybe they’re right. I’ve had my fair share of close calls. There was the time my tractor rolled back on a slope because I’d forgotten to lock the brake. It clipped me as I jumped aside, leaving me bruised but alive. Or the day I nearly sliced my thumb off during the corn harvest. And I’ll never forget the chaos when a cow panicked mid-milking, knocking me off my feet and trampling me in its frenzy.

The barn fire was the worst. I stood there, helpless, as flames devoured the building, licking at the sky like a beast unchained. It happened so fast. I lost nearly everything that day, but I rebuilt. Farmers have to rebuild—fields don’t wait, and animals still need care.

I’m 62 now, and my neighbor reminds me daily how lucky I’ve been. He wasn’t as fortunate. A tractor accident left him in a wheelchair, unable to tend his fields. I visit him sometimes, sharing a rakija and stories of the land. His resilience humbles me, but his loss also sharpens my gratitude.

Life is fragile, like the thin layer of frost that glazes the fields on winter mornings. Yet it’s also resilient. I see it in my three children and hear it in the laughter of my five grandchildren. They are the legacy of a life lived fully, despite the risks and hardships.

Every morning, I walk out to the fields and breathe in the crisp air, feeling the earth firm beneath my boots. This life, with its dangers and demands, is a gift. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.