I Hate Farm Life

Some days you can't suppress your true feelings.  They just have to come tumbling out.  Which is why I was muttering "I hate farm life",  with every step as I trudged across the hot, crunchy field on a murderously hot July 4th.

It all started when hubby rolled out of bed at practically daybreak on the holiday morning.  A day off for farmers who hold down other jobs is simply an opportunity to see just how much they can cram into one long day.  He was issuing orders as his feet hit the floor.  "I'm going to feed and then go check on the tobacco, but the garden needs watering before it gets too hot".  "Ummph!"  I muttered as I tried to get both eyes open to find the coffee pot.  "Remember to check the amount of water in the cistern before you turn on the pump."  "What? Me? Is that before or after my coffee?"  "Well," he responded cheerfully, "I'll be too busy and it's going to get to 102 today, so you'd better get started on it early."  I guess that means before.

An hour and a half later I had about finished watering the tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, eggplants and peppers.  I decided to water the two rows of beans that my hose would reach, sending a sad glance at the remaining beans and corn that were wilting already.  Hot, wet and muddy from dragging the hose through the dirt, I headed back to the house to prepare breakfast.  Hubby in turn arrived fresh off the Polaris Ranger (a gator like farm vehicle) he had ridden to the tobacco patch and back.  As soon as he had finished he announced he was off to cut a field of hay for a neighbor.  He climbed merrily into his air conditioned tractor and left.

I cleaned myself up and decided to do a load of sheets to make the beds up fresh for my daughter's visit next week.  One thing about 100 degree heat, it will flat dry a load of clothes on the line lickity split!

The small field of hay cut, hubby runs back through and reports that he is going to work on the fence in the back.  Boundary fences are always a problem.  The rule is that the fences belong to both parties and both are responsible for putting them up and keeping them in repair.  However, in reality it usually falls to the one with something to keep in to do the work.  The farmer neighboring us grows crops--we have cattle.  He doesn't care about the fence unless the cows get in his crops.  The fence is old and falling into disrepair.  Replacing it is an expensive and time consuming task that is awaiting a joint effort planned for the future.

I had just settled down for an afternoon break and some peace and quiet, when the phone rang.  An irate voice informed me that our cows were out and heading for the road and another farm.  With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I asked who this was and where were the cows.  According to my caller they had crossed the neighbors field, the corner of his field and were heading down the country road.  Visualizing car wrecks and lawsuits, I assured him that I would get the message to hubby and we would take care of it.  I frantically called hubby's cell to pass the news along, only to hear it ringing in the other room.  Drat!  He'd left his phone in the house again.

I dashed to the barn only to discover that he had taken the Polaris to the field.  That only left me the much harder to drive 4-wheeler.  I hate driving it and haven't used it since we got the much easier to handle Polaris.  After spending precious minutes trying to get it started (why do they always do that to me!) I spent more time trying to figure out how to put it in reverse.  Surmounting that problems I backed out and headed for the first gate heading for the back.  The six calves in the field, hearing a motor and hoping for supper, immediately trotted up to the gate.  I dismounted, barely remembering to put on the break, and unhooked the gate.  I pushed it open and it immediately sagged to the ground and came to an abrupt stop.  Back wrenching strains only got it open about five feet.  Not enough for the four-wheeler.  I looked at the curious calves and realized that if I did manage to drag it open far enough to get through, the calves would escape before I could drive through and drag it closed. 

In frustration, I realized that the only way to get the message to hubby would be to hike to the back of the farm.  With the heat searing down on me, I started my walk.  Reaching the back, I found no trace of hubby.  Yelling brought no response.  Finally, I called the guys at the tobacco patch who reported he had been seen heading for the house.  I turned and hurried back to intercept him (all uphill).  Just as I reached the crest of the hill, I spotted him going down the drive.  Naturally, he didn't see or hear me.  More frantic calls alerting everyone to send him home if spotted. 

He finally wandered back through.  I actually had been on the opposite end of the fence from him--I just picked the wrong end to check.  Naturally!  A call to the irate neighbor brought to light the fact that the 20 cows in question were a mixed herd of white, red, and spotted cattle.  We only have black cows. 

In exhaustion I sat with my mouth open in disbelief.  All that walking in the tortuous heat and they weren't even our cows!  Yes, sometimes I think I could get used to living in a city.