The Man Blog of June

This past month, with the start of the market season, we started our annual adventure of not being on the farm every single day. I must admit that I am out of practice peopling and could easily slip into a hermit-like existence without any regrets. I realize that it is all me. The older I get, the more I find a change of any sort less than desirable. I thought it was utterly savage when I was younger to hear my grandfather say that when he was young, folks ate in their home and left the house to use the restroom. Now, the world has completely turned upside down.

I always knew someday I would find myself getting older and out of shape, so using a rotary phone would make me winded. Now I have to explain what a rotary phone is and explain that everyone had one. Yes, there indeed was a cord. No, there was no caller ID, so you just had to answer and find out who was calling. You did indeed have to write down a number or memorize it because you could not add them to your contacts. If the line was busy, it beeped, and you had to call again. There was a pad of paper by the phone to write down a message if the call wasn't for you. Yes, an entire family shared a phone. Yes, the good old USA was still considered a first-world country with those barbaric standards.

There was a time when fast food was fast and cheap. Heat lamps were set up for premade burgers left under the lights, ready to go as soon as you ordered. It checked all the boxes that fast food should check: fast, cheap, and technically edible. Now, it is less fast, has less food, and is anything but affordable. My "old man complaining" always wants to kick in when we are short on time and do the dreaded food-in-a-sack routine. For the love of everything sacred and holy, the entire fast-food industry has made it a point to tell us that raising the minimum wage forced them to increase their prices and automate. They have automated and cut down the serving sizes but still need to hike their prices. I understand that the cost of everything under the sun has increased, but I haven't heard of premium Wagyu beef being used for a McTasty. There was a time when the Sunday special at McDonald's was a forty-nine-cent hamburger or a fifty-nine-cent cheeseburger—mentioning that out loud puts you into the category of the folks who say that grocery stores used to throw out chicken wings in my day.

We had a small selection of channels to choose from growing up. It was whatever came in with the antenna. Why in the world would anyone pay for a satellite when we could get what we needed for free? The entire family was forced to share one round screen that could get as many as six channels on a clear day. Everyone's early years were spent watching Sesame Street. I am somewhat confident that few people in my generation can refrain from counting to twelve without having that song stuck in their heads for the rest of the day and picturing the pinball video. It is good that we can count. Perhaps some of the world's problems would have been solved if there had been a time when anyone on the show thought about a bit of help for old Oscar. Seriously, he is in a constant state of grump and lives in a garbage can. Not once did Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, or Mr. Snuffleupagus get their heads together and try to see if there was anything that could be done to help Oscar help himself.

I don't believe I will live long enough ever to forget my dad's reaction when he first discovered my tattoos. His words were, "For God's sake if you were born with a mark like that, you'd spend good money to have it taken off. Those things are for the military and ex-cons." Now, it seems out of place to see someone without more inked skin than not. Someday, everyone working in a nursing home can tell that the women with "tramp stamps" were born between 1976 and 1984, much like the guys with tribal armbands. The thigh tattoo ladies and full-sleeve guys are younger.

We had a little terrier dog, Fido, when I was growing up. Fido was an outside dog. That meant Fido never wanted to enter the house unless it was cold. He would get a bath in the fall or whenever he played with a skunk or anything rotten, but for the most part, he preferred to wander around and come and go as he pleased. We didn't celebrate his birthday, nor did we know exactly how old he was. Now, you are flirting with animal neglect if you don't buy a birthday cake and have the pup in a climate-controlled environment at all times. I believe the dog food we now buy our boys is slightly less than fillet mignon, but at least for now, they can drink water from the tap, not imported glacier meltings. I was thinking about how spoiled everyone now has their pet dogs while I was giving our geriatric goats their daily medicine and standing between them while they ate. That is the only way old Red gets her share without being pushed out. It only makes sense that we start making a goat's milk pet shampoo. It has been made and will be available online and at Ligonier Country Market this week.

Not every change is bad. It is good to get back in the world and see some folks we haven't seen. It made my day to see my little buddy Josephine this Saturday. Even though a bald round guy in bibs can be a little scary for her age group, a couple of goat stickers and some soap sniffs made me not so frightening. So far, I have learned some sign language from her and her family. Thank you, you are welcome; pierogi and smiling goat are as far as I have made it. I will try to make it a point to learn a bit from YouTube to surprise them the next time I see them.

Until next month, stay safe and wash on.