Farmer in the Dale

On our return trip home, Mr B tells me a story about a farmer’s wife that he used to work with. Clearly the pastoral scenery of old barns and cows contendedly grazing prompts this tale:

According to Mr B, this wife would rise every morning before her farmer hubby and would start frying and baking up a large, full spread country breakfast that would put Shoney’s to shame (Mr B took 7 minutes to describe all the food she cooks-but I trust my reader’s vivid imagination here); she would then set out his clothes and boots for him; make and pack his lunches which she wrapped in wax paper because that was how his mother did it (and it made the food taste better); she would fill the thermos with piping, hot coffee; load his supplies in his truck for him; and then start the engine so the truck would be warm by the time he got in. By the time Mr B finished this tale, his admiration and awe for the farmer and his wife had risen to epic proportions.

With genuine curiosity, because I am completely engaged by the quality of detail Mr B has delivered in this little tale, I ask, “So what would you do if I started your car for you in the morning?”

Mr B then turns to me, looks me up and down, and without a trace of mirth or verbal irony looks me dead in the eye and says, “I’d look for the bomb underneath.”

…And I can’t say that I would blame him. Mr B is no dummy. A farmer’s wife I ain’t.

Hi-Ho the Dairy-Oh! The farmer in the dale!