Jeff Wysaski
A lot of visitors to the farm look at the pigs rolling around in their own filth and just assume us humans are a cleaner, healthier animal. What these folks don’t realize, however, is that when they go to bed and start rolling around in their sleep, I rub pig filth all over their faces.
The old farmhand wasn’t much for talking. That was okay by me, though, because out here on the farm, actions speak louder than words. Especially when those actions include yelling into a really big megaphone.
The early morning is my favorite time on the farm. When I go out to the barn, the cows greet me with a “moo” and the rooster tells me “cock-a-doodle-doo.” And even though they’re just animals, I always feel obliged to reply by saying, “for the last time, I DON’T SPEAK FARM ANIMAL!”
One time when I was a kid, I was out riding my horse when she slipped and broke her leg. It was hard to do, but I had to take my gun and put old Blackie down. It may sound bad to you, but that’s just a regular way of life out here on the farm. Wait. Did I say life? I meant murder.
It’s always nice to go inside to a big, home-cooked meal after a long day in the fields. Except when your neighbors come home early and they yell at you for stealing their food. That part’s kind of a downer.
When the rain doesn’t come, all you can do is get down on your knees and pray to God so he’ll forgive you for kidnapping the weatherman and forcing the guy to predict a scattered shower or two.
My boy’s always trying to get me to let him drive the John Deere tractor, but I keep telling him that thing ain’t no toy. Unless the girls are watching, then “Look Ma, no hands!”
The one thing that can spoil the satisfaction of bringing in an entire field of corn? Bunyons. Paul Bunyons. One gulp and the whole day’s work is gone.