Overcoming Hardship on a Texas Farm
A fight for health and dignity.
The haunting call of the evening bird — chuck-will’s-widow, chuck-will’s-widow, chuck-will’s-widow, sounded through the oaks as the last rays of sunlight faded. The evening was so peaceful—until it wasn’t.
I picked up my pitchfork and tossed rotting vegetables and animal bedding from one compost pile to another: Fork, lift, twist, throw. When you make your living farming, the work is never done; you just decide to quit for the day.
Okay, I admit it. When I’m irritated, or in a bad mood, I work. This evening, I was turning the compost while I muttered and felt sorry for myself.
What was I upset about? Looking back, I have no idea. That’s the thing — I used to let minor stuff get under my skin. Maybe the chickens had gotten in the lettuce rows, perhaps a mama deer had chomped down a row of carrots, or probably I was ‘hangry’ as my grandkids call it — that dangerous collision of mad and hungry. But the point is, I should have quit working two hours ago, not pushed myself to throw yards of heavy compost into the next bin, in the almost dark, by hand with a pitchfork.
Working hard is often seen as a virtue in the country, and not caring for ourselves is a badge of honor. I’d learned that lesson during childhood on an Alaskan…
