The Surly Farmer

***DISCLAIMER: DR. EVIL INSISTS SHE WAS NOT TRYING TO KILL ME***

Know how you can tell we’re country now? We burn our trash. Well, some of it anyway. I’m still undecided on how I feel about this, but it’s not like we’re burning a rain forest or something, and trash pickup is not the simple matter it is in the ‘burbs. Mostly, we’ve been burning moving boxes—how’s that for setting your money on fire? Buy boxes in Charleston, unpack them in Ohio, then burn ’em. Oy.

Anyway, about a week after we arrived, we had a communal bonfire with Dr. Evil’s folks, who were also burning their moving detritus. It was a serious conflagration, and my inner 7-year-old firebug was delighted. By Saturday, we’d accumulated another bevy of boxes, along with various files and papers that we were dumb enough to haul all the way to Ohio before parting with. Included in this lot were a bunch of old greeting cards (Dr. Evil’s, not mine; I keep mine, like normal people do). About halfway through the burn, I was alarmed to hear strange noises coming from the burn pit. They sort of sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West, but on speed vernier. I chuckled, realizing the sound was coming from musical greeting cards, a few of which were in the mix. Then it wasn’t quite as amusing as the batteries in these cards began to explode, sounding like M80s and launching geysers of burning paper about a foot and a half high. Fortunately, the pit is bounded on three sides by concrete block and on the fourth side by a tall, moveable steel shroud, behind which I took cover from the Hallmark assault. Obviously, I lived to tell the tale, but I’m not the same man I was when I went to that burn pit; I’ve seen things, man.

Was she trying to kill me? I guess not, but I did recently introduce her to one of the most heartbreaking songs ever, which could have given her ideas.