The first time my wife ever set foot on a working farm was when we first started dating. Needless to say, she has learned a lot about farming in the first 28 years of our marriage. I guess I have too, but it sure hurts an old country boy’s pride when a city girl does the teaching.
When we first married, we bought a house and a few acres on the edge of a pretty sizable city. I couldn’t wait to get back to raising livestock so I immediately purchased some cattle. Judy is a nurse and, therefore, wanted to have a hand in the livestock business when it concerned animal health. Having been in or around farming my entire life, I felt that there was little she could teach me when it came to animals, but I pretended to let her have some input – as long as it didn’t conflict with what I knew was right.
Shortly after buying the first few cows, one of them became extremely sick rather immediately. I successfully diagnosed the problem and called my veterinarian to see what treatment should be administered. He prescribed a powerful antibiotic and I hurried to his office to get it. When I got home, Judy informed me that the cow looked dehydrated to her and if I didn’t get some water down her before giving the shot, the medicine would surely kill her. I told her she was probably right, but I gave the shot anyway. The cow died a couple of hours later. I hated that my wife was right almost as much as I hated losing the cow.
Later, when our two sons were old enough to raise bottle calves, I’d buy them six babies each fall. Without fail, every year, at least a couple would die. When Judy would ask me why they died, I’d simply tell her, “That’s what baby calves do.” After both boys went away to college, Judy decided she would raise 20 baby calves one fall to see just how difficult it was to make them live. She ran the nursery just like a hospital, with charts on clipboards in every stall where she recorded daily vital signs including body temperature and respiration rates. She also listened to their lungs with her stethoscope and treated each one with proper medication before I would have evened guessed them sick. All 20 of the calves lived and thrived. Once again, the city girl taught me something.
But, for all my wife’s success with animals, machinery still baffles her. I cringe each time she gets atop the lawnmower. Although I appreciate her willingness to perform the task of mowing, I know I’ll have to spend the next day sharpening the blades, or fixing the flat tires, or straightening a piece that she has bent. So far, I’ve been able to keep her out of the tractor for 28 years. Bless her heart, she just doesn’t understand machines, but at least that gives me one aspect of farming in which I still do better than her. Or maybe I should say, “Did.”
Last week, I decided to clean out and power wash my stock trailer (I do this about every 2 years whether it needs it or not). On one of the hottest days of the summer, I began the chore at around 9:30 a.m. Everything went fine until the tip of the power washer quit working properly. I took it apart and cleaned every piece with care and put it back together. It still didn’t work, so I went inside the house where it was cool. Curiously, Judy asked what the problem was. Knowing her ineptitude with machines I tried to explain why it wasn’t working.
“Why don’t you get on the computer and Google how to fix it?” she asked.
“I don’t think the internet can tell an old farmer how to fix a broken power washer,” I chided. I must have taken the wand and tip apart ten times over the next three hours, inspecting, cleaning, and even using 150 psi of air pressure, only to put it back together each time and still have it inoperable.
At about 2:30 p.m., Judy came out to where I was sitting in a pool of sweat and discontent. “Do you mind if I give it a go?” she asked.
I wanted to say, “This is a machine so you don’t have any idea how to fix it. Shut up and leave me alone.” But, having been married for 28 years, I said, “Sure, honey. I haven’t had any luck the last four hours.”
Out of her pocket, she pulled a paperclip and began to straighten it out. Then she proceeded to push it through the tiny opening in the high-pressure tip. I guess she could see the expression on my face when she stated simply, “That’s what Google says to do.”
I put the tip back together expecting this eleventh time to be just as fruitless as the first 10. Lo and behold, it worked. I HATE IT WHEN MY WIFE IS RIGHT!    
Jerry Crownover is a farmer and former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University. He is a native of Baxter County, Arkansas, and an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry about his books, or to arrange speaking engagements, you may contact him by calling 1-866-532-1960 or visiting ozarksfn.com and clicking on ‘Contact Us.’

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