Farmers

It is ten o’clock on this lovely calm August evening. My son is abed, it’s cool and dark here in the country. The time of night I relax and review the day before slumber.

Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it?

Except for the fucking farmer who is banging away at some piece of equipment in the field by my fucking house.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am from multi-generational farm stock and I grew up in a farming community. I have wrestled sheep, milked goats (gross), talked to pigs (good listeners) and I know my way around a cow. I hate chickens. They scare the shit out of me. I had an encounter with one that I swear growled and I’ve never been the same. I know wheat from barley, oats from hay, and I can look at a crop and tell if it’s good or not. I am fluent in farm. I also speak a bit of hillbilly.

But the farmers? Crazy sumbitches.

You know I’m talking to you. If you are of farm stock, you probably have a birthday either nine months after seeding, calving or harvest. Those farmers get excited when they are working. Trust me, growing up where I did, you could not wear a skirt in planting season. Too dangerous.

If you are a farmer, you also spend a huge chunk of time looking at the sky. If you are not a farmer, for god sake don’t interrupt while sky gazing. That is not cool. He needs to understand the horizon, and having some city slicker come in and disturb this very important hour of his workday may result in him asking if you’d like to ride a ‘tame bull.’  Take heed, slicker! There is no such thing. He’s fucking with you for his amusement.

Right now, it’s baling. Not harvest. The food for the cattle? Funny thing: the stuff we eat called meat? Made by vegetarian animals. Go figure.

Anyway, the chaps around here are hell-bent. They are working. Hard. And long. I know how that sentence sounded but get your mind outta the gutter.

While they disturb my peace, I’m okay with it. I am a Canadian. A prairie girl. I understand the concept of making food. I understand that as much as this government tries to bullshit us, if the farmers have a bad year we will all have a bad year.

But really. Farmers, please. I understand the urgency but for god sake! It’s ten o’clock. Could you do it a little quieter?

No, I don’t want to ride your bull.

2 thoughts on “Farmers

  1. You are a farm LEGEND! I can’t count how many times I’ve heard the old boys talk about you over a beer at the auger!
    ‘There was this pretty missy from the city one time. Well she rode ole Billy the Bull there for at least 8 seconds…’ Pure awe!

Go on. Talk to Mama Duck.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s