I’m what the old timers might call a ‘gentleman farmer.' I’ve got the acreage, the tractor and bib overalls... but what I’m lacking is experience. I’ve spent too many years with a guitar or laptop in my hands instead of pitch fork or a garden rake. Building brands instead of branding cows.
But I do love it. Farming. So did my bride. It’s part of why we live where we live and make the decisions we make. Because there’s a big difference between singing about the good life and actually living it.
I have more time on my hands these days. And less in some ways, with little Indy. And I’m trying to spend more of that time doing the things I want to do...
The hay in the back field behind the cemetery was needing cut and bailed one more time before winter and since I had Tuesday afternoon open, with nothing on my plate... I put my cowboy hat on and jumped up on the tractor. And then I proceeded to make a gazillion laps around the field—turning the tall, lush grass in front of me into one long pile of hay—sorta like peeling an apple in one strand with a pocket knife.
I was feeling pretty good about myself, sitting up there on that New Holland... admiring the farmhouse in front of me and the pretty row of fresh-cut hay behind me...
All was going well until the sun ducked behind a cloud and a big gust of wind proceeded to take my newfound farming swagger and my best straw Resistol cowboy hat and run them both through the hay-bine machine that I was pulling behind the tractor.
At first, I had thought that maybe it’d just blown off to the side and I could just pick it up on my next lap around the field, until I got to the spot where I’d lost it...
When I found my hat... it, along with my manly pride... was pretty bent out of shape.
Luckily though, no one was around to see it happen but me.
And you...
Did I mention that I’m a gentleman farmer?
