Marrying into an established farm family has provided quite the education. I anticipated the long hours. I anticipated the hard work. I even anticipated the laundry room piled with mountains of farm clothes that, based on the stench, I didn’t know if I could salvage. What caught me completely off guard was how to speak the language.
Take, for example, field names. If I had a degree in agriculture, it still wouldn’t help me figure out what field is what. It took years not to get sweaty palms every time I needed to deliver parts, lunch or coffee to a field! In Green House field, it turns out the green house was painted blue decades ago. And it’s not even close to the local flower nursery, much to my surprise—and borne out by my excess
mileage. Big Oak field hasn’t had an oak since who knows when, but it’s still remembered by it! “Must have been some oak tree,” I’ve mumbled under my breath.
One day I was walking the dog down our country road and stopped to shoot the breeze with one of the farmers I hadn’t met before. But when I said “Hello, Mr. Strippy,” I soon found out his nickname has nothing to do with his given name, but everything to do with planting crops in strips. Who knew?