“What do you think?” Michael asked.
What did I think? I thought these guys would have a lot more luck selling chicks to people like Michael and me if they could learn not to use the phrase “hobby farmer.” Couldn’t he have said “small-scale farmer” or “backyard farmer” or something?
I stared back and forth between the two birds, as if pondering our choices, while I sorted through my negative reactions to the hobby farmer thing. Michael and I had five llamas, a vegetable garden fortified behind eight-foot deer fencing, and a fifty-tree semi-organic orchard. We weren’t trying to grow everything we ate. We weren’t selling anything. We just wanted to raise a little fresh produce, and maybe let the boys enjoy a life that was more connected than most to nature and history. Michael was a tenured professor at Caerphilly College, in line to become head of the drama department when the current chair retired. I had a career as a blacksmith that was not only lucrative and satisfying but allowed me the flexibility I needed now that we had a family. We didn’t have time to run a real farm. The orchard and the vegetable garden were an overgrown version of a typical suburban backyard garden patch, and the llamas were just for fun. We were the very definition of hobby farmers.
So why did the term sting so badly?
Probably something I should get used to. Since moving to our converted farmhouse, I’d come to realize how embattled traditional family farms were. The giant agricultural corporations drove prices down to a level small farmers couldn’t match, and developers were always waiting to snatch up choice tracts of land. Maybe hobby farmers were the least offensive alternative. People who bought a few acres—or even a whole lot of acres—not to farm but so they could live in an idyllic rural setting, and then began planting a few fruit trees, and raising a few sheep or cows. Or llamas. I’d never had the feeling that any of the nearby farmers resented Michael and me for buying our house with its few acres. Or Mother and Dad, who had bought the much larger farm next door. In fact, since my parents had bought the farm to save it from developers and rented much of the land to a nearby working farmer at a very low rate, most of the county’s farmers heartily approved of Dad. And at least we weren’t the kind of incomers who moved into a farm community and then began complaining about the smell of manure and honking furiously whenever we had to slow down behind a tractor.
Maybe I should work on thinking of “hobby farmer” as a badge of honor.
“I like them both,” I finally said aloud. “And I’m a little frazzled right now for decision making. Can I mull it over for a little while and let you know later?”
Both farmers nodded. They didn’t seem disappointed.
“It’s a responsibility,” one said. “Raising any of God’s creatures. Best not to take in on lightly.”
They went back to their booths, and Michael and I strolled out of the tent.
“If you prefer one, let me know which,” he said. “I’ll take the heat—tell them you left the decision to me and it was my choice.”
“I might do that,” I said. “Although right now I don’t know which one I like better. Right now, I covet them both.”
“Let’s get some of each then.”
“If we get both, we’ll need to keep them separate,” I said. “Or we won’t have Welsummers and Sumatrans, we’ll have Welmatrans and Sumsummers.”
“I figured we could keep the Sumatrans in our barn yard, and the Welsummers at the far end of our yard, right across the fence from Rose Noire’s herb garden. She’s keen on the idea—apparently they would eat up bugs and serve as a kind of organic pest control for her crops. And she also likes the idea of organic eggs, and organic chicken manure for the herbs.”
Clearly he’d been thinking about this.
“Want chickens, Mommy,” Josh said.
“Want black chickens,” Jamie said.
“Brown chickens,” Josh countered.
Michael and I simultaneously recognized the signs of impending physical combat and each grabbed a twin.
“Apparently we’re getting chickens,” I said. “Black chickens and brown chickens.”
The boys cheered loudly.
“But don’t tell anyone yet.”
“Okay,” Jamie said.
“Why not?” Josh asked.
“Because if we tell people which chickens we want, someone else might buy the ones we want before we can.”
They both got that, and nodded solemnly.
“I’ll start negotiating on price and quantity and delivery date and whatever,” Michael said.
I left him to it and set out for my car. On my way, I ran into the Bonnevilles, sitting on one of the hay bales that lined the wide walkways, both to provide impromptu seating and to help steer the flow of traffic. Mrs. Bonneville was picking at a small salad. Mr. Bonneville was eating a chili dog. Apparently sorrow hadn’t taken away his appetite. He tried to frown after every bite and wait a decent interval between bites, but clearly he was counting the seconds until he could take his next bite.