“You’re such a farmist!” shrieked my wife.
“A what?” I asked, not knowing what she had said.
“A farmist,” she replied. “You know what a sexist or a racist is, right? Well, you are most definitely a farmist.”
This outburst came after I had just informed her that we were switching to a new fuel supplier because his prices were quite a bit cheaper and he was “a cattleman like us.” It was that comment that drew the ire from my wife.
I did my best to persuade her that I was not a ‘farmist’ but that I was cheap and that is why I had made the decision to switch suppliers. She wasn’t buying that explanation as she proceeded to list, in detail, all the people with whom I do business that are involved in some form of agriculture.
“What about the surgeon that’s performed three back surgeries on you in the past 20 years?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “he’s a farmer on the side, but that’s just a coincidence.” I reminisced how an office visit usually took more than an hour – 10 minutes talking about my bad back and 50 minutes talking cattle.
“And your plumber?” she continued.
“Technically, he’s not a farmer,” I answered.
“But he was raised on a farm and we know his brother who is still in the dairy business.” Judy smiled that ‘I’m right’ smile as she continued. “Your dentist, too.”
“Well, I got you there.” I shot back. “He’s about the farthest thing you could get from a farmer.
With raised eyebrows, my wife added, “Maybe not, but his receptionist that does all the scheduling is a farmer and we’ve even sold some show calves to her kids.”
Judy went on to point out the car salesmen, machinery dealers, realtors, insurance agents, feed store owners, pump repairmen, mechanics, teachers, bankers, and assorted other professionals and not-so-professionals that I deal with on a weekly basis are ALL either farmers or part-time farmers. She is absolutely convinced that I won’t do business with someone who doesn’t have a boot scraper right outside the entrance door to his or her home.
She didn’t stop there as she reminded me of social events that we’ve attended in the past where I would wind up talking all evening long with the one and only other farmer that happened to be in attendance. “Good grief,” she continued, “I’ve even seen you take someone you happened to like and actually MAKE a farmer out of them over the years, just so you can retain them as a friend.”
“What about the eye surgeon to correct my vision? He wasn’t a farmer,” I stated.
“Jerry, I gave you that lasik surgery as an anniversary gift and the only reason you agreed to even make an appointment was to see if you could haggle him down on the price! To this day, I’m still amazed you were able to do that.”
Maybe I am a farmist.
“Hmmm,” Judy added, “I wonder how long you would have hung on to a city girl like me if I hadn’t moved to the farm with you and learned how to AI, pull calves and drive a tractor.”
Thoughtfully, I put my chin on my hand and replied, “Yeah, I wonder?”
Jerry Crownover farms in Lawrence County. He is a former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University, and is an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry, go to ozarksfn.com and click on ‘Contact Us.’
