THE BOVINE TIMES

My Wicked Farmer Had A Date With Fourteen Hundred Pounds Of Karma

Now and then, fate can be a gentleman

by author

Long ago, I worked on a farm in Maine. You think this sounds romantic, and I agree: It is a thing that sounds romantic.

But it wasn’t.

Not on my farm anyway.

For one, my farm had a slum. It was a mini trailer park on my boss’s property. Because of the scary-sounding word “stigma,” you’re not supposed to call these buildings trailers anymore or even “mobile homes,” though “mobile home” does sound nicer than “trailer,” cooler. Like the homes move on their own for fun. You go to bed in Belgrade, Maine and wake up in Kentucky.

Hear me: Internet teaches us the terms “trailer” and “mobile home” became technically incorrect in 1976 when manufacturers stopped designing these buildings to move. Mobile became immobile. It’s just safer when buildings stay put. They last longer.

Then the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) came up with a new name:

“manufactured home”

Great name, although I’ve never heard of a home that wasn’t manufactured, a home that dropped slippery and whole out of some big factory’s womb. Why didn’t HUD…