My paternal grandparents were smalltime depression-era farmers. They worked 40 acres (about half of it, a lake) just outside the St. Paul city limits in what is now the suburb of Inver Grove.
Accordingly, my dad grew up with simple countryfolk farm kid ways. Dad had 6 able-bodied siblings, raggedy hand-me-down bib overalls and a tin lunch pail. His pet was his very own elderly cow, Barney, who, according to my late Grandma Agnes, "Et more hay than she was worth." Blackie was the ancient horse he rode to school (yes, one room, coal stove and all) and whose manure he flung weekly into the lake. Grandma Agnes fattened beautiful capons and was an artisan with the cleaver and bucket (my dad: "She never missed a drop of blood when she butchered!"). Grandpa Wilhelm was supposedly a master baker and made the best oat bread on which to smear lard and sugar sandwich fixins. Blood buckets. Fixins. Lard. Manure. Those were farm words then.
Farm words now are becoming very different: sustainable, farminista, holistic, organic, foodie-driven, agritourism, art-to-table, heirloom, CSA. When someone says "farm" these days, they could be referring to anything along a vast cultural spectum. From a bunch of independently wealthy hippies on a green-architecture bamboo nomadic yurt commune (tossing the occasional handful of heirloom seed willy-nilly into virgin dirt)--to a glistening Hilton-like food/animal disneyland complete with gift shoppe, Michelin star restaurant kitchens and goat cashmere artisan classes.
Lotsa farmers (or, Urban Homesteaders, to be precise) probably live right on your street. They farm part time, right from the inner city. They blog, they hawk their produce on twitter and attend "Farm Shows" and shop on Craigs List for vintage vessels in which to put up their lavendar jam. They are an evolving entity my own dad would hardly recognize. Urban Homesteaders don't have to chop a hole in the ice to water the livestock when the rooster crows or hide their jar of nickels in the well to make sure their siblings don't swipe them or comfort the calf after Ma castrates it.
It's just a different perspective, I guess.