Pastoral Reverie

Ridge Circle Farm, sole proprietor, female, farmer, that’s me: Lady Farmer. I guess it’s better than being the farmer’s wife, but not nearly as much fun as being the farmer’s daughter. I was a farmer’s daughter for a short while. My dad was a gentleman farmer, part of the landed-gentry. His farming involved the weekend trips to feed the cows someone else tended and pick the corn someone else planted. We had picnics, barbecues, quail hunts and dove shoots. Not quite the fun I heard farmer’s daughter had, but it wasn’t quite farming either. The real farming came later when I moved from the suburbs to the country.
Once upon a time, there was a farmer’s husband. He was handsome in a red-neck sort of way, with curly black hair and green eyes that could talk me in to most anything; I blame those cursed pheromones. I cured that problem with a nose job and he became my ex-husband. Taylor, my oldest son, was born before Danny and I lost our collective mind and moved to the country. Taylor is a city child at heart. The pulse of the Birmingham’s Southside beats through his veins. He was fearless on the farm; fighting geese and protecting his little brother. Now, Taylor is a neurotic urbanite. He might as well move on to some unnamed northern city. My younger son was born after we began farming and as with most of our farm animals, his birth was at the wrong time in the wrong place. The lady at the 7-11 store told me that castor oil would coax that baby right on out and I thought it was worth a try. So, I drank two small bottles of castor oil, had two hours of labor, and then had to listen to two people in the truck saying, “you can make it, you can make it.” Of course, they were wrong. Clint came into this world raising hell. He’s a carbon copy of his dad. It’s nice to know I’ll always have a part of his dad with me forever, lest I forget the twenty some-odd years I spent with Danny. As a child, Clint was afraid of everything. Now, he is invincible, just like his dad.
Fencing was first priority when we moved to the country. In order to string new fence, the vines, brambles and other underbrush had to be removed. One memorable Sunday, Danny and my dad were clearing around an old barn. Clearing is a euphemism for what drunks do with a lighter and a can of gasoline. I thought the fire was spreading too quickly. They assured me they could handle it. Our barn was not in imminent danger, just the Tree Farm on the other side of our property. Daddy, a short man with short little legs, was running in every direction at the same time trying to beat out the flames with pine boughs. As I stomped the jumping flames, I could hear Daddy under his breath, “**##**+# shit.” That was the evening when we met our neighbors for the first time. We also met personnel from two fire departments, Rangers from the Alabama Forestry Commission, and a Chilton County Sheriff. Neighbors’ kids brought marshmallows and played around the embers. Welcome to the neighborhood. We have a reunion around a fire about every three or four years, any sooner and there would be legal ramifications, i.e. jail time.

The family that farms together - stays together, or some such nonsense as that. When you’re farming, there isn’t much time to get into trouble. Farming kept us busy. The only full time laborer we ever had was a transient named Chuck. He fastened himself to my husband as did stray dogs and drunks. Danny had the bright idea to bring Chuck home to live in our RV. Chuck had red curly clown hair and the kind of teeth kids buy for Halloween. Chuck was a tall skinny drunk, the kind that stands on the side of the road in the rain with the sign, “Will work for food.” Chuck was “that kind,” although that was not how my husband found him. I think they discovered each other across a crowded, smoky bar room; the beginning of their meaningful relationship.
Chuck came to live with us to be a farmhand and my husband's new best friend. Danny added the handyman position to Chuck’s resume to quell my objections to his constant presence. Because my husband traveled a lot with his work and was basically inept when he was at home, I needed a man to help with the farm chores. Danny gave me Chuck. I should have asked for a stray dog.
Early in the morning, I would see Chuck walk across the field with Danny’s shotgun. Midmorning he would return, grinning like a fool and swinging a couple of rabbits by the ears. He scared me. It wasn’t that he was intimidating, I could probably have taken him or at least stood my ground in a tussle, but he reminded me of a carnie and I found everything at the circus scary, except the animals. My young sons were thrilled with Chuck; they thought Bozo had moved in with us. In the evenings, Danny would spend hours in the RV “explaining” to Chuck the next day’s chores. I’m sure Danny did most of the talking because Chuck was a stutterer. Beer always helped their communication process though.
Chuck got a bright idea. Bright ideas were catchy around our house - I found out later Danny was the contagion. Chuck thought if he had a truck he would be able to help haul feed and supplies from the co-op. So, with a skill saw, some plywood and black plastic, Chuck turned his classic blue Falcon into something totally, unbelievably ugly, but vaguely resembling a truck.
Two heads are better than one. Then again, there is always that exception to the rule and Danny wasn’t much on rules and would be the first to agree that he was exceptional. Ever heard that saying, “If he had half-a-brain he’d be dangerous?” Chuck and Danny together bordered on half-a-brain. Somehow, one evening their conversation over beer naturally progressed to castration. I thought about it occasionally but in a different context. Danny had seen it done to a cat and thought they could do it to some young hogs.
“Well, we need to get a stove pipe. It has to be snug fit. We’ll put the front half of their body in the pipe with their butt just hanging out. They won’t be able to move. ”
Chuck looked confused. “Www...wh...what? Th...th...that’s not h...how...” Obviously, Chuck wasn’t drunk enough yet.
“Just sharpen your knife tomorrow and make sure you have plenty of lard.”
“L..l...l..lard?
“Mountain oysters for dinner ‘morrow night.”
I made Chuck nervous, which was okay because he made my skin crawl. Our contentious relationship must have reminded him of the wife he had left, because at the end of summer he announced he was going back to Florida to see her. Danny cried.