Sat, June 24, 2017
 16 Pages
The Region's Agri-Business Newspaper Volume 27, Number 6 
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Agri-Times NW


Back Forty
by Roger Pond
Farmer's Fate
by Brianna Walker
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by Janie Tippett
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by J.R. Groupe

Brianna Walker
Brianna Walker
Farmer's Fate

Financial Advice From a Pug Dog

By Brianna Walker
Spending the summer behind a wheel: tractor, combine, swather, forklift, or pick-up, our social interaction is limited, and my 7 year old spends most of his days reading to my 7 month old. So when we accepted a birthday party invitation, my son was very excited to get to play with his friends. And I was...well...I was happy that he was excited.

The day of the party arrived hot and sunny. "How many more Scooby Doos?" he kept asking. (His own invention for telling time. 1 Scooby Doo = 30 min.) 12 Scooby Doos, 8 Scooby Doos, 5 Scooby Doos, 2 Scooby Doos, then finally the awaited hour arrived, and we headed off to socialize with parents we didn't know—we could hardly wait.

We smiled and nodded and listened to the latest baby product recalls, the newest baby food trends, and nap time schedules...my husband and I kept looking at each other, we were out of our depth. We drifted around, but none of the topics seemed to include commodity prices, equipment breakdowns, or what the export market was doing. And so many of the conversations seemed to include something like: "All my children's snacks are organic, GMO-free..."

"Cool," I would say, then mutter under my breath, "My kids eat 'conventional' GE candy off the floor...."
Soon it was time for cake and ice cream, and my husband was generously helping himself to our son's plate of dessert. "Do you want your own plate?" Someone asked.

"Nah, I'm just teaching him about taxes by eating at least 38% of his ice cream." he teased. More weird looks.
The cake and ice cream were soon devoured, and then we watched as the kids laugh and giggle and dance around and shout stories and anecdotes to their parents. I was longing for the quiet of my tractor cab, and as I looked over at my husband, I saw the same look of child-exhaustion in his eyes.

Now don't get me wrong, I love kids...in small amounts and low decibel levels. I'm sure there were other tales being told, but the loudest ones seemed to fall something along these lines:

1. "Daddy!!"
"Ya Bud?"
"Can you [scour the house, looking everywhere for something I'm poorly describing, that you've probably never seen or heard of before]?"
"I don't know. Go ask your mom..."

2. A animated child, talking very loudly, in a language only decipherable to his parents. And the parents looking at you like "Hang on guys, I think my kid is getting to the good part of his four hour long story and we shouldn't miss it..."
I nodded at the parents, I smiled at the kids, and inside I was covering my ears and craving the peace solitude of a tractor cab.
I finally got some time away from the kids.

One whole Scooby Doo—it would have been longer, but my husband found me crouching behind the garbage can, and dragged me back to the screaming, ice cream covered, happy rug-rats running around doing unexplained kid things, and indescribable kid levels. And as I watched my own 7 year old chasing around, I decided kids are a lot like used toothbrushes: your own is okay....but the idea of someone else's...?

email: farmersfate@agritimesnw.com

   

 


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