Like a Country Gentleman

It was a good day on the farm; honestly, that means I only cursed once and nothing fell on me. That’s what passes for success out here, especially when helping a friend who’s under the weather.

Now, for months, I’ve been eyeing that old gate like it owed me money. Every time I passed through it, which was often, I’d mutter something about needing to widen it.

The thing was narrow enough to make a steer think twice, and with age, it had taken on the attitude of a mule—stubborn, sagging, and prone to complaining whenever I asked it to move. Well, today I finally got around to doing the job.

Got the gate enlarged and the fence tightened. There’s something mighty satisfying about pulling wire taut and hearing that low hum like a guitar string when you pluck it. Makes a fellow feel like he’s got some control over the world, even if it’s only a short stretch of pasture.

Once the gate got done and the fence was singing, I figured I’d check on the babies—by which I mean the lambs, not some unexpected chapter in my life. They were all tucked into the shade, looking as innocent and clueless as a group of toddlers who just pulled the stuffing out of the couch and are waiting to see what happens next.

The sheep pen had turned into a botanical experiment. Weeds tall enough to register to vote had sprouted in every corner, and it looked like they were planning a coup. So I went to work, pulling and yanking and tossing green invaders over the fence like a bouncer at a particularly unruly garden party.

Now here’s the thing: it was 90 degrees on the thermometer, but the humidity had other plans. That sort of thick, wet heat that makes your clothes stick and your thoughts melt.

The weather service reported that the “feels like” temperature was 100 degrees, but I found that to be generous. I’m pretty sure my brain was stewing in its juices.

After thirty minutes of pulling weeds, I was sweating worse than a pig. And I know that’s just a saying, but for once it was true—I looked over at the pigs, and those creatures had already claimed the pond.

They were all laid out like retirees at a Florida resort, just floating and grunting softly with the kind of peace you only earn when you’ve given up on doing anything useful. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the sun like a wilted gladiolus, wondering why humans haven’t evolved enough to grow mud coats.

So I did the only sensible thing. I dropped the gloves and retreated to the house in search of anything cold. I don’t remember exactly the name of the beer I guzzled—I just opened the fridge and pointed my face at it like a dog catching wind out the car window.

That’s farm life. You sweat, you swear a little, and you find joy in the sound of a fence wire singing in the sun, even if it ain’t your place.