 The
Stovebolt Page |
|
||
 |
 |
|
J.C.
Milliman
|
|
|
What do YOU do for a living? Farming for metaphors |
| The
Stovebolt Page |
|
||
|
|
|
J.C.
Milliman
|
|
|
What do YOU do for a living? Farming for metaphors |
I wasn't looking for metaphors that day; I didn't even know I needed one. But there it was.
Three Belgians (horses, not waffles) on a walking plow, dramatic sky for a backdrop, fresh-turned dirt and not one bit of technology in sight (other than the bright orange tractor I was sitting on ...).
It was glorious enough to hold my attention long enough to take out at least three of the young Norway spruces I was spraying weed killer around - dang tractors don't have sense enough to step around obstacles when left to their own devices.
Now that was farming, I thought. Sure, I'm proof that anybody can farm, given enough drawbar horsepower and chemical application, but there was farming at its visceral roots. Real horsepower, as it were. Gritty, tough, silent save the clink of tug chains banging the single tree hooks with every stride of a Belgian leg.
The horses, of course, had no appreciation for the cultural or aesthetic quality of the setting. They merely put their heads down and strained into their collars, the muscles rippling like waves down their enormous flanks.
Consuming four pounds of a 12 percent protein mix and about five to 10 pounds of hay everyday, those Belgians produce something else besides metaphors. All that power comes at a price (or a by product, depending on how you look at it).
But I get ahead of myself ...
My neighbor managed a quick wave before returning his concentration to the "furrow jig" he was performing behind that plow. Even though the team has slowed the pace considerably from the day's first trip down the field (they were anxious, like anyone, to get to their business), he had the driving lines around his shoulders and any loss of control could result in the plow diving like a submarine into the earth and him being dragged over the handles.
That would most certainly leave a mark.
Man, that was more fun than what I was doing, driving a noisy, smelly diesel and pulling a sputtering sprayer unit. I couldn't even hear the purple martins.
Farming is dirty business either way you do it, but there's nothing romantic or nostalgic about diesel fumes. Were I Dave Barry, I guess I could make some crude joke about a different kind of farm-related fumes at this point but as neither Shawn or I have any cows ...
So I went back to delivering my own weapon of mass (weed) destruction. In fact, you could call me "Chemical John," even though I don't have any maniacal, despotic cousins who lead through torture and support of terrorists. And hopefully, the weeds won't retaliate by putting a precision-guided munition down my pie hole, either.
"There is no orange tractor coming up the row spraying weed killer," I can just imagine the weed information minister declaring. "In fact, the Chickweed Fedayeen have taught him (referring to me) a lesson he won't soon forget."
Yeah, that spraying weed killer from a handheld sprayer while threading a tractor between rows of carefully cultivated Christmas trees for 8 hours at a stretch cultivates something else besides metaphors - hemorrhoids.
Again, I digress ...
Hard it may be, but farming, especially using real horsepower, certainly gives a farmer a lot of satisfaction - you can see in very real terms what you accomplish each day.
You also sleep well at night.
Even I, with my diesel and gas-powered prime movers (I wish I was using those hay burners!) am able to point and say, "See those furrows? I did that today." It's a good feeling.
Sortta makes up for working for the government where some of us don't have anything to point to at the end of the day as a benchmark - something we can point to, lift up or otherwise lay claim to and say "I did that."
Sure, we can think more abstractly and point to the images of Naval Aviation's huge success in OIF and claim the Warfighters' success as our own. And well we should. The long hours and dedicated work members of this command put in every day to ensure Naval Aviation's continued success are without doubt.
Still, though, it's damned hard to answer that question sometimes, "What do you do at the base, Uncle John?" (If you think I'm going to point at this column as an answer, you should consider giving up glue sniffing).
For some, it's pretty easy to answer.
For the rest of us, being able to say that we murdered 5 acres' worth of Chickweed, or plowed a field today is a whole lot easier than trying to correlate what you actually do with your job description.
I returned to killing weeds, pondering ... And there, like an epiphany burned in the clouds, it hit me like petrified goose poo raining down on Buffy's outdoor debutante party.
In my neighbor's barn stands the ultimate farm metaphor. Most days, it just stays in its spot (not unlike a cubicle), accepting its workload and waiting for its turn to step out and shine (figuratively speaking). Patiently accepting that its inbox is always bigger than its outbox.
Alchemy in action, it takes the waste products of farming operations, mixes them with other raw elements to make a very useful product that empowers other elements (teams?) of the farm to be more productive. It even distributes those seeds of synergy, as it were, to where its needed.
Without it, the organization would be less efficient, work would pile up and less efficient elements would suffer deprivation.
It's even got "New Idea" painted on the side - how apropos!
And if farm implements were eligible for beatification, this one would be the patron saint of a lot of organizational elements.
Talk about a forehead slapping moment! Eureka! That we should all be so blessed as to have that kind of impact! And I can finally answer my annoyingly inquisitive niece. With pride, I can swell my chest and say ...
I spread manure!
 Help
keep this site
going and growing! |
Copyright © 1995-2008, The Stovebolt Page, Mechanicsville, Maryland.
No parts of this site, its contents, photos or graphics may be used without permission.