What’s a Farmer?

Scott says a farmer is someone who just likes to see things grow. I think it has more to do with dirt, meaning, how dirty you get in the process; the dirtier you get, the more “farmer” you are. Sure, there’s more than that, but that’s what’s on my mind at the moment—dirt—so with my life and brain as it is these days, best take what comes in and work with it.

Take a “grower,” for example. That’s what the wheat families whose fields surround our little frontier vineyard call themselves. Although they did start out as “farmers” we were told, and I know that they also like to watch their fields grow and ripen, “farmers” they are not. Changed their label to “ranchers” (I still can’t figure out that one, to round up, what, unruly wheat?), my local source telling me to elevate themselves from the “farmer” status. And now they’re “growers,” another label I can’t get my head around, because when you grow something your focus shifts to what you’re growing, whereas “farming,” in my vernacular, means your focus is all inclusive: what you grow, the land it grows from, the weather, the people and culture…everything. But that’s another idea all on its own.

It’s clear all the “farmers” left when the scale of their operation grew to gi-nourmous proportions, and the focus became the commodity, not the all-inclusive, lifestyle I so try to romanticize. And believe me, it probably is a big romantic notion, as I sit here in my tiny Portland farmhouse, dreaming of the day we can finally be out at the vineyard site, instead of listening to some obnoxious generator of my neighbor’s as he power washes EVERYTHING, including his grill, for HOURS, it feels like. I so long for the country. But hell, even old hermit Thoreau scorned and pitied the poor farmer who broke their backs, day in and day out to coax a little growing from those rocky east coast fields. Getting dirty, filthy, in the process, no doubt, unlike “growers” out east of Porltand, who don’t appear to get dirt on them at all.

Seated high up from the land on massive machinery meant to cover hundreds if not thousands of acres, they’re nicely encapsulated from any dirt inside sealed, climate-controlled cabs. Probably even have radio! Could they have TV?! And always when they step out, nicely ironed, crisp and clean. It’s the nature of business; when mowing and growing on oceans of acres, your machinery will most likely be built with oceans of comfort. And you will not get dirty. But I forget, they’re not famers, they’re growers.

On the flip side, you should see old Scott, putt-putting out there while he farms the 20 on the little red Goldoni, dwarfed on the landscape, FINALLY with a wide-brimmed hat to keep both sides of his head/neck shaded—good redneck material before this—usually in someone’s old, bright-colored Brooks Brothers shirt to cover his arms, and worn, faded, thrift jeans with a little too much pocket embroidery for my taste, ones that look like they’ve seen too many square dances prior. And when he stops, except for the sparkle he still has in his eyes, with the dirt stuck to any sweaty or sun-screened place, and always a fine coating on his clothes, he’s one mess of a dusty man.

But Scott takes it all in stride because he’s right out in the middle of it, right up close to the land, right where he wants to be, living the life. No air conditioning (he says the airy mesh on his hat is his air-conditioning, and how luxurious it is, compared to a baseball cap) and for sure no radio. Just the sound of the tractor, or when that’s off, the sound of the wind, or the meadowlark, or hawk. Maybe one day there might be a small cab on our tiny tractor, maybe not, and we’re looking forward to the day when all that beautiful native clump grass fills in rows to keep the dust (and weeds) down. But for now, Scott’s a farmer, one dusty, dirty farmer.