An Iowa boy makes his way to his Vermont garden. He smiles at the sight of his soybeans, even though he calls them edamame now (it’s an East Coast thing). He jumps for joy at the sight of his corn. And he yells like a fucking lunatic when he notices the bright red tomatoes.
Shit happens.
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My wife works with people who try to make Vermont agriculture work. It’s a tough task when you realize Vermont is mostly a cold place with rocky soils and steep hillsides. But I try not to mention that much. Because that’s her job and I am her husband. Got it? Good.
But the other day she came home and asked for my help.
“Oh yeah,” I thought. And then, with a remembrance of my former therapist, I continued to myself: “I am feeling useful and all.”
I’ve got to work on that, “and all.” It lacks confidence.
“Can you help me come up with the name of a new, Vermont-based meat company?”
Weird, I know. But that’s my life now. Besides, she’s bringing home something called: A Pay Check. Important shit. Especially when you’re a: Horse Logger. Duh.
But that’s not the point.
The point is: My wife asked me to help her come up with a name for a new, Vermont-based meat company. And I responded with this:
Meat Vermont: Naturally.
P.S. Trademark pending.
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Wow, you look like Shannon Ketch.
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Because he’s my brother, I can steal his shit.
So, take this:
Friday’s Top Ten
1) Morning love.
2) Garden work.
3) Watching Bel bunch bouquets.
4) Thinking: This is all right.
5) Finding joy in cleaning for the surprise of it.
6) Whispering this to the air: Hello.
7) Mountain hike.
Harvest & dinner.
9) Townes Van Zandt.
10) And a moment or two with this on my mind: Nothing.
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The sign posted at the trailhead today said this: Use Good Judgment.
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Cool.
Maybe.
Unless they know something I don’t.
Wait. Was my daughter here?
Because she’s been messing with me lately.
A lot.
Which reminds me: Be Careful How You Parent.
Just saying.
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“You are scared to race me up the hill on a horse, aren’t you?” the girl who used to nap on my chest while I read Tolstoy declared.
And I am.
Scared to race her on a horse, that is.
Because I ride a horse named, “Bart.” A fat, half-draft horse that specializes in the fine art of sitting still – very still. People compliment me about my ability to keep Bart calm in crazy, in-town situations.
But I know the truth: Bart doesn’t really want to move.
And then I started to feel guilty. Should I have told them about Bart’s reluctance to move? Or should I just allow them to walk away with their dreamy-horse moment in full focus?
Which is to say: It’s not easy fooling people about horses.
Giddy-up.
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But tomorrow morning: We race up the hill. On horses.
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No complaints.
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