|
Political Prop
Do you ever notice how
the corn grows a little
straighter every
election year? Not
because of better seed,
mind you—no,
it’s because
it’s bracing
itself. It knows
what’s
comin’. I know
what’s
comin’. Every
four years, like
clockwork… here
they come. The
candidates.
They don’t call ahead—oh no. They announce themselves. “We’re bringing the campaign to real America,” they say. Well, congratulations, you found me. I been here for seventy-three years. Same farm, same fence, same leaky barn roof they love to stand in front of like it’s some rustic postcard.
Next thing I know,
there’s a dozen
SUVs in my field, a man
in a suit pointing at
my tractor like
he’s discovered
fire. “Now this is what hard work looks like,” he says, like the tractor’s gonna blush.
They always want the
same thing. “Can
we put your tractor in
the background?”
Sure. “Can we
stack some hay bales
right over
there?” Well,
they’re not
exactly decorative
throw pillows, but
knock yourselves out.
“Can we borrow a
pitchfork?” No,
but I’m
thinkin’ about
usin’ it.
They stand there,
sleeves rolled up like
they just got done
milking’ the
cows. I’ve seen
mayonnaise sweat more
than these folks. And
then the speech starts.
“We’re gonna help farm families!”
“We’re gonna increase exports!”
“We’re gonna raise your standard of living!”
“We’re gonna open new markets!”
Do you know what I open every morning? The barn door. At
5 a.m. Rain, shine,
sleet, heat wave…
cows don’t care.
Chickens don’t
care. My back
definitely don’t
care.
And I’m listening’ to all this talk, and I keep thinkin—When? When’s all this help comin’? Because I ain’t missed a feeding, I ain’t skipped a bill, and I sure haven’t taken a day off since the Carter administration tried to convince me disco was a good idea.
Every four years they
promise me the moon.
Well, I’ve
already seen the moon.
I see it every night
while I’m
fixing’ something
that broke during the
day.
And the best
part—when
they’re done,
they don’t leave
quietly. No, no, they
gather around my
tractor like it's a
celebrity. Snap
pictures. Shake hands.
Somebody pats me on the
shoulder like I’m
part of the exhibit.
“Thank you for all you do,” they say.
Oh, you’re
welcome. Feel free to
come back anytime,
preferably at 4:30 in
the morning’ when
the water line’s
frozen and one of the
steers decided to
evaluate its commitment
to fencing.
Do you wanna help
farmers? I got an idea.
Skip the speech. Put on
a pair of boots that
ain’t been
polished by a staffer.
Spend one full day here.
Wake up before the sun.
Feed the animals. Fix
the thing that
wasn’t broken
yesterday. Watch the
weather ruin your
plans. Do paperwork
that somehow costs more
than what you
contributed. Then do it
all again tomorrow. No
applause. No podium. No
carefully positioned
hay bale.
You do that—just
one day—and I
promise you’ll
give a much shorter
speech next time.
Because right now, all
I am to them… is
a backdrop. My
farm’s a campaign
prop. My
tractor’s a photo
op. My life’s a
talking point.
And I gotta tell
you… I am getting
really tired of
being’ the
best-looking piece of
furniture they ever
campaigned in front of.
Now if you’ll
excuse me, I got real
work to do. And unlike
promises… it
doesn’t take four
years to show up.
|
