Will Farm for Love
I’ve come to the conclusion that God has quite the sense of humor. That or He’s really ticked off at me. Why? Because in the last two months, since my husband got sick, I have taken charge of our farm.
That’s right. Me. The city chick so flipped out by life in the boonies I wrote a book about it.
Trust me, it’s not a promotion I wanted or worked for or ever showed any interest in receiving. It was thrust upon me when my husband had emergency gallbladder surgery that unmasked a much more serious condition.
The kind that involves the “C” word.
In his moment of need and fear, what could I do? Kick the hens in their heinies and suggest they apply at Perdue? Sell his goats, Willie and Duke, just because they keep coming into the kitchen? Neglect the vegetable garden he gave his heart and soul to, even though it had to be harvested at the same time I had to (and wanted to) be in the hospital with him? Take the steer he and our ten year-old bottle fed, nursed through “the scours” (bovine speak for – sorry – loose bowels), and love like pets to the livestock exchange?
No. I couldn’t dismantle his life in the name of saving it.
Instead, I tiptoed up to the plate, stared at it long and hard, and flashed on “What I Did for Love” from A Chorus Line. And then very quietly so as not to attract the attention of those only too eager to see me fall face first into a cow pie, I slipped into a pair of work boots. Yes, you read that right. I not only own, but wear, the cutest pair Tractor Supply had in stock. (I even almost like them, but not with shorts; our Boer Whether Billy goats have better legs than I do.)
If I told my husband it was just too much to care for the farm on top of caring for him, the house, the kids, and our three crazy canines, we’d be out of here faster than Susan Boyle’s stint in the spotlight. But it’s not too much. We have wonderful friends and neighbors who pitch in and help collect eggs and feed the dogs and cut the fields and corral escaped cattle and fix fence boards and cart our boys to work and football practice and show up with dinner piping hot and so delicious it’s painfully clear my cooking’s about as good as my farming.
But I’m getting better, and Stu will, too. And when he does, he’s going to want his farm back. Believe it or not, I hope he’ll still let me help. Not only have I finally gotten the hang of some of this stuff, I’m actually starting to enjoy it.
And yes, I do believe that’s God I hear giggling.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
