Excuse me, I must climb the pole and take a call...

Green Acres is the place to be, Faaaarm living is the life for me. For me? Well just maybe. I've at last wafted to that place in life where I just want to retire to the farm and commune with the soil. Much like Oliver Wendell Douglas, I want to work outside, far from the staleness of the boardroom, and even further from the claustrophobia of the cubicle. So, if all goes well, and God willing and the Creek don't rise (as they say), I'll soon be mixing and potting and propagating up a damn storm. I'll be fretting over frost...and cost and lack of rain. I'll be shooting the bull with Hank Kimball, the county agent; well, not the county agent, but then again, what were were talking about? Aphids? I'll be haggling with Mr. Haney; and feel pretty certain that I've wasted my money on the new equipment I just bought. I'll get to be known on a first name basis with the local general store clerk, Sam Drucker. I'll bore him to death with my former education and he and Mr. Ziffel's eyes will instinctively glaze over when I come in to the store. Back home, Ralph and Alf, the brother sister carpenter team are overcharging me for adding a master bedroom to the prehistoric farmhouse I connived my wife into buying. Meanwhile, out in the field, the ravages of mother nature are working me 16 hours a day just to stay ahead. I'm in full fledged war with pests, disease, and environment . I dream of leaf rot and smell like chicken crap - but I have faith. And what else is there after all? My faith may be an inch deep in places, but it's a mile wide and pretty damn deep when you get away from the shores of doubt and pain. And I'm up to my ying yang in tomatoes and that's a good thing. The Pomegranates are looking good and even an idiot could grow cucumbers. Occasionally, I see compatriots from my days in the cubicle and they look at me as if I have gone stark raving mad. From a man of the button down collar to the grimy little imp thrusting ears of corn at them. I can dig their consternation. Nevertheless, soon, I'll hop back in my truck with a pocket full of cash. As I drive, I'll look thankfully to the clear, blue skies and that big yellow ball that I know is heating up the Hothouse nicely. Later that evening I'll stand in the field and thank all mighty God for it all: the soil, the water, the light...and even the chicken crap.