this day’s inspiration from lady sharon in camelot

 

meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Between two horses, two dogs, and a very suspicious cat, it feels like all I’ve accomplished this week has been cleaning up crap and mending fences. I do love my fantasy farmhand land archetype and welcome it whenever I get the chance but this past week it has been just a little too realistic. My fantasy is now tainted with the fear of phone calls and voices saying “Your dog is in my yard.” What I need is a ranch with miles and miles of fenced acreage so if I were to look out my window and not see my dogs I wouldn’t worry that they are in someone’s yard digging holes, doing their “business,” and getting me in trouble with the homeowners association.

Why do I like this farmhand archetype anyway? What makes this role I’m so inclined to portray important to me, especially when it can be such a pain in the A double S at times?

When I was about eight or so, my daddy bought his first farm. It was about 40 acres just off Rocky River in Union County and he started raising beef cattle as a “hobby”–his own real farmhand-land. Right off the bat, there was a whole lot of work to do; and even as a young little dogie, I realized Daddy’s venture was going to be a family affair. There was always a reason to go across the river to the farm: Cows to feed, fences to mend, hay to stack and unstack, and newborn calves to count. But I never really minded the work because I was with my Daddy.

Eventually, Daddy bought another farm on Long Creek in Stanly County and started rotating the herd between two locations. This was no simple task; but the upside for me was that it became outright necessary that I learn to drive the tractor and the truck. I started out in Daddy’s 1964 VW bug. Sometimes Daddy would stack bales of hay on the front bumper and I’d drive out to where the cows were. By the time I was twelve, I could drive Daddy’s 1947 International farm truck with a double clutch and push button starter and a John Deer tractor.

My Daddy was never known to cuss; and the only times I ever heard a foul word come out of his mouth when I was growing up was at the farm. Three times, in particular, stand out in my memory and all have to do with my driving: Once I scraped the old truck on the gate post; Daddy wasn’t mad about the truck but the gate post was another matter. Then once while loading up cows to move to another pasture, I was backing the truck up to the loading chute and slammed into a support post on the 100 year-old barn. Daddy ran out to the driver’s side of the truck and had that look on his face. I tried to tell him I didn’t see “it” but he replied, “Good god a’mighty, you mean to tell me that you couldn’t see a *cuss* barn?”

But the last incident is the one that sticks out the sharpest in my recollection: Daddy was alone at the farm and got the tractor stuck in a big mudhole at the bottom of a hill. Of course, there were no cell phones in the early 1970s, and Daddy wasn’t too happy about having to drive back into town to get me and the truck. Even before we made it back to the farm, I could tell that it was not going to be a pleasant experience.

Daddy took a monster-sized logging chain out of the back of the truck and hooked it up to the tractor, then both he and I cranked our vehicles. It was pretty loud–the truck engine struggling and whining in low gear and the tractor spewing and spatting its own expletives. To this day, I still believe Daddy put on the tractor brakes before he hollered for me to stop; but at any rate, I kept going up the hill until there was a great jerk backwards and the ugly cracking sound of a heavy log chain hitting the rear end of the truck. Then, I stopped.

Thank goodness for the noise of the truck and the tractor because when I looked out the rear window, Daddy was cussin’ up a storm. The rain cap on top of the tractor exhaust pipe bounced up and down with his facial expressions. I had a pretty good idea of what he was saying and was glad I couldn’t hear it. If there was ever a time that my Daddy could have sold the farm and never looked back, it would probably have been that day.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

I have put up a new dog fence in the back yard; and I did it all by myself. My friend Edie fussed because I didn’t ask for help; but honestly, I was not fit to be around. There wasn’t enough noise to drown out my own cussin’. Afterwards, I felt kind of good about mending fences despite my spending an entire afternoon wrapped up in aluminum wire that is bound to break at some point in the future; probably sooner than I’ll be ready for. At least the day reminded me of the old farm and made me feel just like my father’s daughter. Maybe this explains my farmhand archetype and my incessant country girl attitude about a lot of things.

I guess the fence doesn’t fall
far from the post after all.  

 Roy M. Hinson
 6 March 1936 – 9 September 2006

 

fantasy farm hand

I’ve been away from the buzz these past few weeks. Time for the office and writing has been shifted to the barn. I’ve been taking care of two beautiful horses for a friend. As a result, I’ve fallen into my alter-ego and happily become a farm hand; but now, my friend has returned home and resumed the care of her animals. The fantasy farm hand in me is wrestling, resisting the return to real life…

I have no horses of my own, yet I love to ride. I love to tend and groom and love on horses too. I’ve never met a horse I didn’t make a connection with. Moreoever, I am particularly fortunate to have friends who allow me to get close to their animals. These past few weeks I’ve gotten very close to Dale and William–my friend’s horses. For a time, it felt just like they were my own. Now that I’m not at the barn twice a day, I feel kind of lost and empty.

I only started riding about six years ago; and then, it was just a try at St. Andrews’ therapeutic riding center. The first horse I rode was Nike, then Diamond; and I rode Diamond until he retired in 2006. Since then, my horse was been Max. He’s an amazing creature and when I’m on him, I feel 10 feet tall. Since beginning the therapeutic program, I’ve developed a love for horses that is soul-bottom deep–something I never suspected could happen.

One thing I’ve come to understand these past few weeks is that I could never have a horse of my own. The work and care involved is absolutely non-negotiable; and although my mind and spirit could accept that, my body couldn’t handle the physical responsibility. That’s a sad realization for me; however, I’m grateful that my fantasy farm hand archetype had a chance to play and be real for a while. It’s also gratifying to know that, given another chance to play, my boots are by the door and ready for more.

Today, my place is here–in the office. I can be happy with that. And it’s good to have a place and a purpose. But, you know, it’s good to have a fantasy, too.