More Songs of the Lazy Farmer

There’s no use arguing, of course, I’d only be unheard and hoarse; so I just nod my head and smile and send the dog to hide awhile; Mirandy soon calms down and then the pup can show his head again. But even if she stayed irate, I’d never follow her mandate; why, Fido is this man’s best friend, he’ll stay right here until the end. That hound’s the only person here from whom I never need to fear a sassy word or plaintive guff about how I don’t work enough; he’s treated me, throughout his life, much kindlier than has my wife.  

18 October, 1952

I never have quite understood why ev’ry man, however good, is made to suffer pain like sin because of whiskers on his chin. I’ve asked the preacher why it is and all he says is, “Well, gee whiz…” You’d think that Adam was the one who swiped that bright-red Jonathan; by rights it ought to be the girls who have long beards to match their curls, but all the suffering they do is listening while me and you stand in a pool of blood and soap and try our level best to cope with stubborn stubble made of wire and wind up with a face like fire.

A thousand men have spent their lives, no doubt without help from their wives, a-tryin’ to invent some tool for making shaves both quick and cool. But I’m afraid I’ll have to state their progress ain’t been very great; in fact, they’re farther off the track, instead of forward they’ve gone back. The old straight-edge had this appeal: You could at least use it by feel; I’ll swear it meant a lot less woe than either mower or a hoe. And yet a plain blade also slips to slice your nose or cheeks or lips, so all you do is stand and scrape, then grab for some adhesive tape.  

21 April, 1951

You’ll never catch me looking sour about a little April shower; I never feel regret at all when gentle rain begins to fall, because I figure that I git a double benefit from it. For one thing, all those raindrops mean that things will soon be turnin’ green and winter’s bare, depressing sight will disappear ‘most over night. The smell of ozone in the air foretells days that are warm and fair, with tree buds poppin’ out all o’er and flowers bloomin’ by the score, with pastures carpeting the land while small grain grows to beat the band.

But there is still another gain provided by an April rain which tickles me ten times or so as much as that it makes things grow. Whenever ground is soaked and wet, why then, of course, I cannot set upon a tractor seat all day and work my happiness away. As soon as it begins to storm, whenever puddles start to form, it means that I can quit right then and rest until it’s dry again. So I say, let the rain pour down, why should I growl or fret or frown? If crops ain’t in, that is no crime–it means less work at harvest time.  

5 April, 1952

Most folks have never recognized that of the things man has devised, not many cause so little harm as Sunday dinner on the farm. Of course, I know you understand that there’s no vittles quite so grand as those your mother, then your wife, have fixed on Sunday all your life. No boy or girl can ever grow up on a farm and still not know the special pleasure that comes when the Sabbath bustle starts again, or when they sit, all scrubbed and neat, at linen-covered board to eat–with “comp’ny” plates and silverware–the best food you’ll find anywhere.

But there’s another merit, too, that maybe hasn’t dawned on you: Except for Sunday, when you must dress up until you think you’ll bust in coat, white shirt and choking tie, perhaps you might grow old and die and still not know how un-sublime such rigging would be all the time. I’ll bet you’ve never stopped and thought ’bout those poor devils who are caught in city jobs and have to wear their fancy duds ‘most ev’rywhere. That’s something I could never do, and so a Sunday’s useful to remind me once again that I can go six days without a tie.