Molly Jacobson – Affinity Ag Custom Harvesting
Chapter 12: Confessions of an impostor…and a tribute to my friends who love me anyway –
This post will be hilariously shocking for those of you who know me. Even more so for those of you who grew up with me, who know the world from where I come. Unlike Kenny Chesney, I’m not from a down-home front porch where we eat mama’s dreamy biscuits and chug-a-lug sweet tea on sexy tractors. Farm kids, you have no idea how lucky you are to have haylofts for your romantic but itchy makeout sesh’s. For us city slickers, the best it gets is a city park next to two homeless dudes playing chess—and their Vietnam flashbacks make it real for ALL of us. My dad is a retired doctor—an OBGYN (and NO, he’s not MY doctor. He did not deliver MY children. Ick. Just—Ick.) Much to my beef-birthing husband’s chagrin, my dad does NOT do livestock. I’m told by secret sources that the one time my dad opened his puny little heart to the furry beasts over 30 years ago was an ill-fated horseback ride (apparently, the hot trotter took “Hi-Ho, Silver” very seriously and hoofed it back to the ranch with Dad and his floppy Nikon and fanny pack still aboard). And that closed the chapter on agriculture for Dad. Mom is a nurse, but she sacrificed her best years raising two head-strong, independent, ungrateful children. Mom grew up on a farm, though, and as far as that goes, let’s just say her experience was NOT similar to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. She loves the city. So, in summary, Dad: doctor, city, music, nerd; Mom: nurse, capable, city, married to a nerd. These days, back on the ranch, my most-used apologetic phrase is “I’m from town.”
Here’s the stunning part: I’ve been dreaming about having a farm since before I could eat cow-pies. There’s something soul-stilling about it. I realize to the people in my world, a bawling cow sounds like a baritone cat being castrated. But to me, it sounds as holy as Cinnabon icing tastes. The other day on my way to Walgreens, I drove by a pasture dotted with red Angus heifers and I started crying because I love them so much (and Sarah MacLauchlan was on the radio). I’m told that in the homesteader days, women on the plains went crazy. Apparently, wind, solitude, and flat land equal a recipe for insanity. But to me, isolation and a dreary landscape order a cease-fire on the cacophony I usually feel. So obviously I’m already crazy. Lucky for my plains-loving husband, I’m already well medicated. My dream is to live far enough away from my neighbors that I only scare the chickens when I hang clothes on the line naked (What? I only do laundry when I literally have nothing left to wear. I even wear all my dress clothes before I hit the ol’ Whirlpool. When people start telling me I look fancy, I frown because know it’s only a matter of days before wash time. Bleh.)
So far, I’ve only confessed the passionate lusts I have towards cows and land. I’m not even going to go into how I feel about horses. I DO have ovaries after all. Any cowboy worth half his ridiculous belt-buckle knows every girl (whether they are from town or not) loves horses and he uses this law of nature to his carnal advantage. Save a horse, ladies, ride a cowboy. Even my own dear husband took me horseback riding when we were dating. I only found out after we were married that he much preferred his blue horse named YAMAHA.
I can’t explain why I’m a nerd for cows (but have no bovine knowledge or special skills—remember, I’m from town). Nobody understands why I crave flat land when everyone I know is an avid hiker/snow bunny. People think I’m cracked for gambling my inheritance in the great casino that is agriculture instead of making a healthy down payment on a cute condo downtown (complete with golden lab, 1.8 children, and 401K.) My friends gaze at me with a confusing lack of envy when I excitedly announce that it’s time to pack my own personal domestic circus into our home on wheels for 6 months of harvest season travel. Needless to say, my parents think I’m from another planet. I wonder how many times they’ve lain awake at night wondering if their baby was switched at birth with some unfortunate rancher’s kid. When my poor mom’s scrapbook buddies ask after me, she has trouble explaining that I’m actually 8 months pregnant and I’m actually driving tractor for my husband and I’m actually on cloud nine about it. “Mom, guess what?? I’m pregnant AND Caleb is gonna LET me drive cart full-time this summer!!” You know what, Mom, just go ahead and lie about it. You have my sympathies. Just make up something else that fits squarely into the world of sane people, like, “Who, Molly? Well she’s fabulous, just fantastic. She and Caleb just closed on a cute condo at the corner of Jesus Boulevard and Fitness Street. They have a golden lab and 1.8 children. Caleb has a simply dreamy 401K, and they have insurance on everything.”
-Confession: God made me a farmer’s wife—I came that way straight from the factory.
-More shocking confession: It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of and worked for.
-Confusing confession: I have no farm. I have no cows. I have a sketchy, constantly struggling gamble of a business that allows me to play farmer’s wife a few months a year. I live in an apartment in the middle of town. I can’t make summer plans because I have no F#@$%ing idea where I’ll be, what I’ll be doing, or if I’ll have more than -$511.32 in my checking account. As a matter of fact, I can’t make plans for next week for the same preposterous reasons.
-Emotional/Financial confession: I’m 27 years old and filled with an illogical amount of rage about my lack of farm ownership. I hate gambling but do it for a living. I’m the kind of person who would refuse to devote $0.01 of my 401K to a 100% guaranteed investment. No farmer knows what the harvest will look like. All the same, he is required to throw 100% of his blood, sweat, tears, and hard-earned cash into the pot. Every year. One year can make him or break him. Unfortunately, there are many other, better, card sharks around the table—the weather, other farmers, the government, the EPA, Father Time, Mother Earth, etc. (If you’re looking for more information or to join a farmer’s pity party near you, meet at the Muzzle-Loader Café for coffee any day at 4:00 a.m.—ask for Lars). The point is, I’m always broke, tired, and angry enough to slash my barista’s tires, but I still don’t have what I want.
-Occupational Confession: My most hated question: “What do you do?” I don’t despise this question because I’m a stay-at-home (sort of?) mom. I just have no idea how to answer it. Most of the people in my world have no idea what my standard answer means (“We have a custom harvesting business…”). Not only that, but the answer to the hated question changes at least once a year. If I were being truly honest, I would say, “I have no f$#%^ng idea. Now get me a drink.”
-Confession about being married to my business associate: As stated above: I want to farm. Farming is gambling (with my money, time, emotions, and anything else that’s difficult to part with). I hate gambling. It’s just that I’d rather be wearing nipple clamps attached to the wheel of fortune than gamble this way (I have no problem with regular gambling…I’m all for ladies night pounding the free Shirley Temples with a stack of ones next to the machine—let’s get crazy, gals). Unfortunately, to have any chance of achieving my farming dreams, I have to gamble. I’ve spent 5 years making my husband beg and plead for slivers of my cooperation in the gamble. I’m stingier than Aunt Mabel at Christmas. “Here’s a nickel, Johnny, now don’t spend it all in one place!” If my poor husband wasn’t legally bound to love, honor, and cherish me, I’m sure he would have fired me by now—if not for my shortage of teamwork, then surely for all the dents I’ve put in his pickup. I’ve saddled him with the heavy burden of making my dreams come true, but I’ve continued to tighten his rein. It’s not fair. He’s thrown in all his chips; now it’s my turn to sweeten the pot, y’all. I’m gonna have to gamble all I’ve got, which isn’t much. My hope, my dreams, all five liters of my blood. I would add my tears to the list, but that’s a never-ending resource no matter what the circumstances. And sweat. Let’s just not talk about sweat. It’s gross—especially after I had my kids. 100% cotton sheets have never been more important. So my confession is that I’ve always held back. I’ve always nursed a little hope on the side, but it’s poisoning me, my marriage, and my sick dream of shoveling cow pies. They say hope deferred makes the heart sick. I’ve always blamed my husband for deferring my hope by failing year after year to make me a real farmer’s wife. Perhaps what they really mean is that hope shelved makes the heart sick. And for that, I’ve got nobody to blame but me. Ante up, Doc.
Follow Molly’s blog at https://mollysdirtintheskirt.wordpress.com
1. Be ready to go at the drop of a hat...sometimes without a lunchbox.
2. Has removed the word impossible from her vocabulary!
3. Can hold a baby, take care of a toddler and drive a tractor or combine all at the same time.
4. Must be able to cook for a crew - large or small.
5. Must be able to read minds.
6. Must be able to banter with a parts man until he realizes you DO know what you're talking about.
7. Must be the entertainment director for those rainy days.
8. Be a wife, mom, friend, helper, cook, problem solver, taxi driver or extra crew hand at all times.
9. Can handle the call that makes you react, "You need what? When?" Dropping everything you're doing to make it happen.
10. At the end of the day say, "I really do love this life".