LIFE ON THE FARM
                              by Homer Pheeder

                        Copyright 1989 by Dave Laird

There are only a few farms around Springdale and although some are more
prosperous than others, the general rule is most farmers around this area of
the state are a strange lot and unlikely candidates to appear on the cover
of next month's Successful Farming Magazine. That might be difficult since
most of them seem to spend the majority of their time at the Reservation
Tavern commiserating with one another over a few beers.

If you want to talk with a successful old-time farming family, you may have
to look quite a ways from town. You also have to be careful about the
Marijuana Growers Association while you're looking. They have a tendency to
be especially protective of their brand of farming. If you keep an eye out
for bearded men with Uzi's, you'll do well.

For example, there is a big dairy farm about ten miles from town up Smoky
Gulch. The house, barns and outbuildings are all painted white with what
appears to be black lace trim. When you drive in the blacktop driveway you
know that somebody important must live here when you see the new Ford pickup
truck loaded down with every chrome gadget known to man, parked in the
drive, or glimpse the olympic-sized swimming pool out back of the house.
There is a huge air conditioning cooling tower sitting beside the barn. The
power required to run such an enormous cooling unit, especially when
combined with a unit of similar dimensions by the house would kick any
electric company into a frenzy of lust.

Farm?  This is a mansion, compared to Springdale!

Farmer Smith comes out to greet you, wearing a three-piece Hart, Schaffner &
Marx suit, toting a Gucci leather briefcase. He's on his way to a corporate
board meeting since, although he runs the farm, some seed company in
Manhasset, Rhode Island actually uses the place as a tax writeoff.

With Smith's corporate security forces carefully watching you back out of
the driveway, you at least have the satisfaction of seeing one of the cows
put a corporate cow patty through the barbed wire fence, spattering the
corporate pickup truck with recycled alfalfa hay.

Down the road a little further, there is a cute farm, all painted red and
white. You might think that the typical farming family lives here when you
see the dog laying smack in the middle of the road. Where else are you going
to find a dog that lays in the road and manages to stay alive but on a real
farm? You might find dog asleep in the streets of Spokane, but they are
either short-lived or prone to injury.

Farmer Jones pops his head out of the back screen door. 

"Are you the fellar from the Land Bank?" 

Something in this man's eyes tells you that you are on the verge of newfound
knowledge. Maybe it is the fact that he seems overjoyed at seeing you. As it
turns out, there are a bunch of banks paying close attention to the farmers,
these days according to Jones.

There's a Land Bank (in charge of the land), a Soil Bank (which takes charge
of the part of the topsoil), the Grain Bank (which is in charge of the
grain), the Water Bank (for all growndwater) and the Environment Bank.(where
all the environmentalists watch the other banks to make certain that they
don't violate any regulations of the E.P.A. In fact, according to farmer
Jones, the paperwork that farmers are required to fill out and submit weekly
is a government plot to enforce birth control among farming families.

"It used to be," said Jones, "farming was fun. You would work hard five
months out of the year, and the rest of the time you chased the wife around
the house until she killed the rabbit. After you got tired of that, you
could go tinker with the tractor or go down to the Springdale Grange
meetings and gossip with the other farmers. With all the paperwork we got
now, farmin's more work than its worth."

As you are heading back to Springdale on another road, you see a flashing
neon sign along the road in livid colors, The Old Fart's Farm & Gambling
Casino. As you are pondering the implications of such a strange sight, you
notice a flaming pink and chartreuse tractor parked next to the grain silo.
As long as you live, you probably will never see another tractor painted
like that.

The minute you drive in the driveway, a well-tanned man who later introduces
himself to you simply as the Old Fart comes leaping out of the side door of
the barn, his eyes alight with what appears to be unbounded joy.

"Are ya here to gamble? Hell, I am. I've been here for nigh well thirty
years, and gamblin's the name of the game. What kind of stakes do you want
to gimme on barley this year, huh? Maybe you are into wheat. I'll tell you
what, I'll give me some good odds that the wheat will fall on its ass this
summer, whaddya say? C'mon inside where it's cooler, 'n let's talk!"

Although you are in a state of shock, you follow the Old Fart into the barn. 

Inside, mounted on a wall, is a solid-state electronic tote board, the kind
you might see at the New York Stock Exchange, flashing the latest grain
prices from all the world markets. There are about twenty men in there,
jumping around like they had the Springdale shuffle from drinking bad
tequila, waving their arms at the boys running the board, talking on
cellular telephones and furtively scrutinizing various papers. Over in one
corner of the room, a bunch of old men are gathered around a television set
watching a sexy movie, oblivious to all the fracas around the big board.

When you finally work up the nerve to ask the Old Fart about an old-time
farming family, he immediately whisks you back outside, away from the furor
inside.

"Old time farmin' family, huh?", he asks speculatively. "Heck real farming
has always been a gamble. Sorta like a no limit three-way dice game with
Mudder Nature and God, y'see. But we were too straight laced in the old days
to really let go."

He expertly spits a wad of tobacco juice, neatly dispatching a beetle on the
ground. "I'll bet you won't find what you're looking for, either. Most of
them old timers either sold, were bought or else got smart and started
gamblin' fer a living. Those of us that are left are modern as can be, and
we're hardcore gamblers to the bone."

Later that evening, as you leave the Old Fart's Place, you may have
developed a different perspective on farming.

As you are driving back through Springdale you see a man driving mules
across the main highway in town. You stop to talk with him, and he tells you
he's gonna be a farmer since he went and caught one of the wild mules of
Springdale, put it into a harness, and is going to plow up the dandelions in
his half-acre front yard. This strange individual promises to keep you
posted about future developments, but you wisely decline to accept his
offer.

Somehow farming in Springdale just doesn't seem to be the same as anywhere
else in the known Universe.