The Surly Farmer

Why ‘The Surly Farmer,’ you ask? The ‘surly’ part should be abundantly clear to anyone who knows me. I should note that ‘surly’ doesn’t quite capture the spirit exactly, but it was closer and kinder than ‘sarcastic’ or ‘ironic.’ That, and it does serve as a modifier for ‘farmer,’ and who would want to interact with a sarcastic farmer, let alone an ironic farmer?  That’s getting into man-bun, artisanal toothpaste territory, don’t ya know.

Which brings us to ‘farmer.’ Am I a farmer? Not yet, but I will be come next year. I am as surprised as you are, I assure you. But I’m also enthusiastic, a feeling I welcome back after a long absence. By next spring, we will be installed on a small farm in southeastern Ohio. I never thought I’d end up in Ohio, and I never thought I’d be a farmer anywhere, but Dr. Evil and I were given the opportunity of a lifetime when Dr. Evil’s parents hatched a plan to subdivide their property and build a new house more suited to their, uh, years, on one plot and have us take over the old farm. (Which is not old at all, in fact.)

What do I know about farming? Nada. Gar nichts. ничего.

I’ve read The Contrary Farmer for practical advice (who knew drainage was so important?) and a fair amount of Wendell Berry for philosophical guidance. For actual guidance, I will rely on Dr. Evil’s father, who will be a short walk away, unless my leg is caught in some kind of hellish farm implement—hey, I’ve heard stories, man. I am certain my initial efforts will prove quite amusing to him. And maybe to you, as I’m not above reporting on my own stupidity, I mean fair’s fair.

What will we grow? Beats the hell out of me. Tired? Sunburnt? Impatient? Told you I was surly.