This Massey is eleven years old and makes short work of a field of soybeans. Our red Chevy truck is a ’73 model and the white International (not pictured) is an old, gray bearded man to a mechanic. It was new in 1970, the last of our shade tree, repair-them-ourselves vehicles.
We begin our sixth week of harvest on Tuesday. It’s been a smooth run this year with little rain and no major breakdowns *cross fingers, knock on wood, spit over left shoulder, conduct burnt offering ceremony*
This week – the good Lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise -- we’ll combine our last field of beans and put the equipment to bed.
Farming is business like any other. Difficult some days and life at its best on others. Early mornings, late nights. No different from a mother rising at 4 am to get the kids ready for school I think. Or the commuter braving a traffic jam and snarly boss.
Best thing about farming? No one tells me what to do. Let me reiterate -- No. One. Tells. Me. What. To. Do.
Independent much? Eh, a little.
Worst thing about living in the country? No pizza delivery.
Got any questions for me about farming? What we grow or how we grow it? Prices? Subsidies? (For the record, IMHO subsidies help the ‘big’ farmer get bigger and crowd out the small farmer)
It is a good life, a private life and a place where Fantasy rules.