This Ain’t Farmin’ (or) Fan Me With Palm Fronds and Feed Me Grapes.


Recently my husband bought me a baby monitor. I guess he grew tired of me being so bitchy what with having to drag my exhausted self from my warm bed three times a night to check on farrowing pigs. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something else to be bitchy about. It’s a gift I have actually. I can’t believe it’s my turn to say this, but man have baby monitors ever come a long way since my day! This one has a screen so I can watch the pigs from the comforts of my bed.
It’s funny that a baby monitor could fertilize the strange thoughts that have begun to hatch in my brain, such as the meaning of the words”real farmer, ” but I must not question the muse of creativity, whatever it may be.
I realize, in no uncertain terms, that I ain’t no farmer (though I CAN talk like one, y’alls.) Take my ancestors for example. The difference between us is monumental, no matter how much like them I try to be. They farmed because they had to. Their very existence depended on the strength of their stock and whether they were granted enough rain to grow the crops that were, literally, the deciding factor in the survival of the entire family. That being said, my ancestors did a great job considering I’m here at all, and I often send them a mental apology for comparing myself to them as, really, there is no comparison. I do however, have the right to say that farming blood runs through my veins, and I know they’d be proud of me, regardless of my reasons for doing this which are, I’ve discovered, are purely selfish. I’ve got a baby monitor in my room for goodness sake! I bitch about getting up at night when I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO! If my crops fail, I simply go to Save On Foods and buy unhealthy, processed junk that will prematurely age us all and give us terrible indigestion. Compared to the “real farmers” I’m being fanned with palm fronds and fed grapes, albeit without an army of tanned, half naked cabana boys. Poor me.