Mad Jack: “I ain’t no farmer…”
Gentle readers, as much as I respect and admire and appreciate what our farmers go through to provide much of our food, I always felt I could never be a farmer.
“Farmers don’t ride horses,” is what I always envisioned in my young mind as a boy. I have always been around farms and farmers and seen the long hours and dedication they put in to fill the grocery shelves. I, too, have done some farming in the past by day-working for some of my friends and neighbors during planting and harvest season.
I drove a tare truck during beet harvest, hauled silage and drove tractors across that sweet-smelling Colorado dirt. I have to admit I wasn’t really that good. Once, I weighed my truck full of silage and started back to the field to get another load without unloading what I had on there at the time.
How clever was that? Not! Years ago I wrote a little poem about my thoughts on being a farmer. I called it, “I Ain’t No Farmer.” Here goes:
I ain’t no farmer and that’s a fact.
When I put on my seed corn cap,
I completely forget how to act.
I lose my equilibrium,
my brain gets all scrambled and such.
When it comes to rhyme and reason
I find I’m completely out of touch.
I get to cravin’ Harleys, silos
cheap whiskey and smelly sheep!
I plumb forget about Justins, Stetsons, good cow ponies,
things I used to dream about in my sleep.
I get to likin’ the smell of diesel smoke,
grease, oil and dirt.
I inhaled diesel fumes, and rancid silage
till my chest began to hurt.
I need to be reprogrammed,
in my life’s book I need to turn the page.
I need a Stetson on my brow,
I need to smell the purple sage.
I need to be ridin,’ ropin’ branding
and smelling burning hair.
I need my old dog trottin’ long beside me,
I need to see cows every where.
I just ain’t no farmer and that’s plain to see.
I couldn’t be no farmer and still be me!
What I need is lots of coffee, the smell of the saddle room,
throw a leg across my pony,
you hide and watch me bloom!
Stay tuned, check yer cinch on occasion, be true to yerself, God bless the farmers andI’ll c. y’all, all y’all. ❖
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