My life on a small Texas farm is far from glamorous, but rewarding just the same. Though I stay busy during the Spring and Summers repairing air conditioners, my Fall and Winters seem to be for either travel, or article marketing; and working on the small farm, of course. It's altogether common in the HVAC industry for folks to be like me, and have all of the free time in the world at these times of year. The flip side to that, and you knew that there would be one, is that all Spring and Summer we have to be on our toes, and ready to head out the door at a moment's notice to make yet another after hours service call. People get rather testy when the temperature is in the 90's or higher.
But now, this time of the year, things are different; and the only way that one can truly have what they need, besides fixing the odd heating system that breaks down, is to have another means of passing the time, and hopefully, some of that time passing will generate some sort of income. This is how I've become an article marketer, well, that, and the fact that I'm forever writing weblogs anyway. While it's true that good budgeting can help a great deal, who in today's world can budget very well? This nation didn't get into the shape that it was in by being fiscally responsible, you know.
But this is about small town Texas, and life on a small Texas farm. I live on the paternal property, but not in the paternal nest; and for this one must always be thankful, or be a fool. We've a nice shady grove of oak trees, and they produce untold hundres of thousands of leaves, and these alien leaves make inroads upon the St. Augastine grass, and this is intolerable; and so they must be raked away, and one finds out soon enough that that is a job that is never finished. Job security is nice though, is it not? We've a final solution for the leaves though, and that, of course, is the vegetable garden, and a fine garden it truly is. Okra it produces, and I often find that Northern folk don't have the proper appreciation for okra, that's fine by me, I love the stuff. Squash, of many varieties the garden produces, and these are an awesome thing when battered and fried as thin slices, double or triple the size of the typical potato chip. It's often a question not of "would you like some squash," but rather, "how would you like your squash," and the answer is either, "I would like my squash boiled," or "I would like my squash fried."
But of course the garden is not limited to okra and squash, oh no, far be it from that small bounty, the garden produces broccoli, jalapeno peppers, banana peppers, garlic, onions, tomatoes, new potatoes, radishes, beets, and melons; either watermelons, or cantalopes. It's a fine garden, and a lot of work to maintain. The work, however, is rewarding, and so is the fine food that it produces. The sad thing is that in this sick world, we sometimes have to deal with Monsanto seeds, but only when we've done so unknowingly. Even sicker in this world is that senate bill has even debated whether or not we have a right to grow our own vegetables, and this is a violation of every natural right that every human being has ever had; only a criminal government could debate such a thing. But I've digressed.
Chickens we have, and lots of them, but they are small chickens, Bantaams they call them; but they do not know that they are small, and such is the source of the legendary Bantaam Rooster, and how a smallish man, sort of like myself, can sometimes get an attitude that would have you believe that he were twelve feet tall or more, a Biblical giant! Please never refer to me as a Bantaam Rooster, you'll aggrevate the condition, and bring it into the light, probably.
Besides the chickens, we've a pasture, but we don't own the cows on the pasture, they belong to someone else that leases the pasture, we only own the cow poop, and there is no "we" here, I am the one who tends to the poop with hoe and shovel and wheel barrow, and transfers it to the garden in something I call, "operation tasty vegetable." It's my attempt at imagining that my efforts are part of something larger than there truly are, again, no Bantaam Rooster jibes, I've a shovel and a hoe, and you've nothing but words.