The Agrarian Ideal

Ever since I was old enough to wear a pair of wellies (gum boots), I have fancied myself as a farmer. Both grandparents and parents had large gardens attached to the house, as well as a large allotment (pea patch) where pigs and chickens were raised, and large quantities of vegetables were successfully grown. I can still see my Grandfather Reed with his Pince Nez glasses perched on the tip of his nose, every time I smell home grown Tomatoes. My own efforts, over the years, have ranged from mediocre to the absolutely dismal.

If I were to add up all the time I have put into these efforts over the years, and weighed that against the output, the cost of each tomato and head of lettuce would be sufficient for a down payment on a very large house or expensive toy, let’s say a BMW or a Mercedes. Which, of course, is why I never do.

I mean, after all, why would I choose to make myself depressed. Living in reality has never been one of my strong points, which, for those that know me, is all too painfully obvious.

Instead, I continue to hope that, one of these days, I will be bent double with the weight of produce coming out of our garden and green house, instead of picking the odd pea pod off the vine that the resident population of Mule Deer have dained to leave for me in pity. The chance of our son getting into trouble for perforating his Dad’s large green cabbages with air gun pellets is non existent. Nor is there much chance of him and his pals getting banned from the garden on account of them scoffing all the raspberries.

He’ll thank me one of these days