Farmlines: Living In the Days of Dumb Phones and Analog Apps

Copyright © 2014 Daniel Joseph Gogerty

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ISBN: 978-1-4834-1152-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1151-4 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 5/1/2014

CONTENTS

Introduction: Digital Clouds, Creek Fog, and Road Dust

Section 1   Section One: The Frost’ll Get ’Em

Grease Rags and Pipe Smoke

Look Out, Lizzie — Here Comes Another Son of a Bitch

Tilting at Windmills

Driving Under the Influence

Don’t Get Old

Section 1   Section Two: Sometimes the Center Holds

You’ve Got Mail—Maybe

A Real Farm Has Trees

Crossing the Bridge

Welcome—Now Go Away

Section 1   Section Three: There’s an Analog App for That

We’ll Just Toss It Out If You Don’t Take It

The Hygiene Hypothesis

The Real Fantasy Baseball

Genetically Modified Fishing

Face Deep in Frozen Manure

Section 1   Section Four: The Toad Work

Plant When the Oak Leaves Are the Size of Squirrels’ Ears

The Grass Is Always Pinker on the Other Side of the Fence

Squeeze—Don’t Pull

Cows on the Lam

Free Runners and the Bounty Hunter

Harvesting Post-nutritional Waste

Muskrat Stew

Take This Job and Love It—Even at Fifty Cents an Hour

Why I’m Not a Farmer

Section 1   Section Five: Almost Comfortably Numb

The Leave It to Beaver Diet

If Video Killed the Radio Star, Smartphones Put My Transistor on Life Support

What Would Mr. Ed Say?

Insects, McSquid, and Embalming Fluid

The Sweet and Sour Fructose Debate

Do Cartoon Pigs Produce Animated Manure?

Ag Social Media Ain’t Nothin’ New

Twittering with Stamps and Envelopes

Bedtime Stories, Jukeboxes, and Pink Floyd

Farming the Carpet

Section 1   Section Six: Distance Learning

Scoopin’ the Loop Was Our Social Media

Thunder Road Was Gravel and Dirt

Never Vacation with a Farmer

The Magic Bus

Hey Kids, Leave Them Teachers Alone

A Well-rounded Education

Mirages on the Edge of the Flatlands

Disappearing Railroad Blues

Batman and Robin to the Rescue

Section 1   Section Seven: Anchors, Rituals, and Touchstones

Mad Cow Disease

Time Travel in the Prairie Grass

Swimming with One Arm

Headstone Epitaphs Are Farewell Tweets

Chicken Coops and Patchwork Quilts

Who Digitally Altered the Harvest?

Burning Down the House

Songlines and Farmlines

End Notes

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

For Mom and Dad

Rex and Kay Gogerty continue the Farmlines established in 1856.

INTRODUCTION: DIGITAL CLOUDS, CREEK FOG, AND ROAD DUST

EIGHT OF US ARE scattered in the creek and along the bank where the water cuts into the cow pasture. We’re moving stones and clumps of sod or pushing large sticks into the shallow water. Breeches in the small dam continue to pop up, but we’re slowing the flow. Our preteen mob of siblings and cousins can accomplish plenty if we call it play and not work.

A scraggly cottonwood tree clings to the east bank, and the light breeze jostles the shiny leaves that reflect the afternoon sun. Nothing else is going on in the world—our horizons end where corn rustles in nearby fields and where livestock barns form distant silhouettes in the summer haze. Our parents are light years away in a fog of work and whatever else grown-ups do. We have cool water, bare feet, and warm sand. The small pool grows enough to convince us of our powers.

The younger ones aren’t much help, but they’re into the buzz of it all. They see the water rise, hear us brag about making a swimming hole, and maybe believe us when we talk of constructing a dam like the beavers did a mile or so downstream in the woods.

For a while we ignore the blowflies, and we’re too wet to feel the sun searing into our shoulders. A couple of us dog paddle and scrape our knees in the backwater. Terry, the oldest of the cousins, names it the Grand Coutie Dam.

About the time a rip in the dam opens up, the youngest cousin gets tangled in nettles and a few of us start a mud fight. Eventually a cloudbank casts a long shadow, and the breeze shifts to the northwest. We dog paddlers shiver a bit and pull on our T-shirts.

Hey, I think Mom’s baking chocolate chip cookies this afternoon, my brother says. On the walk home, we avoid the bull thistles by following the cattle path in the pasture. The younger ones lag behind, but we turn around often enough to make sure they’re coming. Mom makes us step out of our wet Keds, but she knows the kitchen will soon be marked with mud, cockleburs, and loud boasts about conquering the creek. By the time we’re halfway through our cookies and milk, clear flowing water has opened several large holes in Grand Coutie. Tomorrow, the bend in the creek will look about the way it did earlier this morning when the sun rose over the Farm.

~~~~~

Many believe agriculture’s future is rooted as much in the digital cloud as in the good earth—and they might be right. Modern farmers want to plug in, log on, and fully access. A few old timers might putter around on a couple of analog acres, but their way of life is fading. As one newspaper editor wrote, If you want young people to be interested in agriculture, you need to make it about computers and scientific innovation, not milking the cows before dawn.

Dairy farmers are generally up before dawn, but many use robotic sensors and computer-managed systems nowadays. Farmers download new apps for just about anything. They go digital to keep up with grain markets, check the weather, or contact a mechanic. Major implement companies include mounted brackets for smartphones, tablets, and other mobile devices in tractor cabs. A farmer in the field can spend more time peering at a screen than looking at the crops. It used to be dangerous driving country roads because the farmer approaching in a dusty pickup truck was doing a windshield survey—weaving along, gawking at the neighbor’s cornfield. Now the farmer is a hazard because he has his head down checking market prices on a smartphone.

I grew up with a dumb phone in our house. It was so far back on the evolutionary scale it had a tail—one that was connected to the wall. But our analog life on the farm matched up with today’s offerings in other ways. We downloaded our games in the grove or haymow or from a Parker Brothers box; we accessed various apps by running out the door to a tree house or snow fort or pickup baseball game; and we made our social media connections by talking, scheming, sharing, fighting, and linking up with kids in the community. For better or worse, we often had to make do with whatever was floating around in our heads. Digital wonders have replaced much of this. I try to roll with the times. I tweet, blog, link, and download, but I can’t claim to be high tech. Too many hours online and my affliction settles in. I have my own version of SAD—Screen Attention Disorder.

Decades ago our small town had one cafe, and the only thing digital about it was the owner’s right hand. He was missing parts of a few fingers, but he could crack eggs using his thumb and pinky, so his breakfast special was not only edible, it was entertaining. I remember sitting at the counter, swinging my grade school legs and studying the signs posted on the wall near the gone fishin’ calendar. One said, I’m not slow; I’m not fast; I’m half fast. Of course I didn’t get it until years later, but now it seems an appropriate slogan for my tech aptitude.

Rural life had to evolve, and folks need to adapt. A farmer shouldn’t aspire to be half fast or half assed with it all. And the editorial writer is correct. Young people are best suited to use the digital revolution to breathe new life into the world of agriculture. But for old-timers and youngsters alike, there are times to unplug. Maybe not a techless Tuesday or Webless weekend—just some natural moments of country Zen each day.

Some tech guru supposedly said, If it’s not in your data base, it doesn’t exist. The image of a massive digital cloud had me caught up in a few seconds of profound thought until the smell of cyber manure settled in. Every time I drive back to the Farm, I see and remember images that don’t fit on a screen—the scent of fresh-cut hay; the tangle of new-born pigs fighting for their mother’s milk; the sound of kids playing in the pasture on a hot summer day. These Farmlines keep me linked with the land and its people—past, present, and future. I guess my digital cloud is in the fog along the creek and mixed in with the dust that rises from the gravel roads.

SECTION ONE: THE FROST’LL GET ’EM

GREASE RAGS AND PIPE SMOKE

SO JUST IN CASE the tech guru is right and things don’t exist until they’re in our digital clouds, I need to drive home to see what I can access and download from those dusty roads and fog-lined creeks. All this techie talk has me paranoid. Maybe I lived in some type of Farmville Matrix and those magical days in the country were just part of a crazed programmer’s Green Acres coding scheme.

Four miles shy of the Farm, I turn off to cruise through the streets of my old hometown, Zearing, Iowa. It doesn’t take long. On most days, two minutes at 25 miles per hour gets you from end to end. In 1967, a high school friend drove his Ford Fairlane at 75 mph from the school parking lot to Main Street, about halfway across town. I imagine the trip took fewer than 20 seconds, but it seemed an eternity because a classmate and I were on the hood, desperately hanging onto the windshield wipers and cursing ourselves for thinking a six-foot, two-inch seventeen-year-old wearing a neon blue shirt wouldn’t hit the gas and take us on a horror ride.

On the other hand, traffic did slow at times. During the late ‘50s, a few James Dean imitators decided every Halloween weekend was a time to trash the streets. We kids would stare out the windows as the folks drove us to Sunday Mass. We passed the school building featuring toilet paper trees, soaped windows, and shaving cream graffiti. An outhouse served as lawn decoration. Probably from the Rogers place, Dad said. Some years back a few of the boys hid in the dark until they saw the old man make his nightly visit. Then they tipped the outhouse over on its door. That’s a tough way to finish the day.

Post-Halloween streets became obstacle courses. Cars had to weave around hog feeders, hay bales, and old tractors. One year they added a stolen manure spreader to the mix. I imagine the feces hit the fan after that; the vandalism craze seemed to die down some. By the time we grew into our delinquent stage, Halloweens had become football Fridays, bonfires, and keggers in the woods—outhouses became as scarce as zoot suits and Edsels.

Rural towns were gathering spots when I was a kid, and Zearing had its own analog social media network. You might have been able to say snap chatting or friending without getting too much grief—but the terms would have had different meanings. We often had snap chats with friends at Lounsberry’s Grocery or on the street as we walked to Johnson’s Hardware. On the other hand, nobody would admit they tweeted or twittered. Even before the Monty Python gang educated us, a twit was a loser. I guess folks today can decide how much the connotation of that word has changed. Back then we posted on friends’ walls by hanging out in the school parking lot, calling each other dorks and bragging about how much rubber we laid when we popped the clutch and peeled out at the town’s only stoplight.

The social media of my time was more mobile and electronic than Zearing’s network in Dad’s day. He remembers Billy Young’s Blacksmith Shop as the number one watering hole for farmers. They led their horses through swinging doors, and the smithy would grab a hoof, cradle it in his thighs, and fit it with a horseshoe. The kids liked to hear the swish when Billy dunked a red-hot weld into the brackish tan water. We could take a coaster wagon in, and he’d weld it pro bono. We might even get a licorice stick. The men sittin’ there needed something a bit stronger—a can of Velvet or a plug of chew.

Dad’s a lifelong local, so he can mentally Google places and times from just about any Zearing era. Henry Moon’s tavern was another popular gathering spot, he remembers. A penny peanut machine and a pint pickle jar sat on the handsome mahogany bar. Men would play pool, swap stories, and even latch onto a day job if some farmer needed help shockin’ oats or shellin’ corn. A few loafers generally sat on the bench outside of the place and chewed tobacco. The sidewalk became scented and slippery.

Apparently sliding through chaw spit wasn’t appealing to most of the women. Dad says, They met at somebody’s house to socialize and quilt, or they gathered at Ing Madison’s grocery store to shop, visit, and collect their egg checks. They usually tolerated the male gatherings, but when the Knights of Columbus meetings in the church basement included poker, the ladies insisted the basement window curtains be closed.

During my boyhood, Zearing’s welcome sign boasted a population of 511, but the town swelled to somewhere between 30,000 and 50,000 on a September day in 1972. The famous Sparrow family lived three miles from town, and their beautiful Belgian horses pulled circus wagons for beer companies in parades around the country. For the annual Zearing Labor Day Parade that year, they decided to match a world record by having forty of these massive horses hitched up to one huge wagon. They accomplished the feat, and old-timers are still proud of the widespread attention and the fact that the resulting traffic jam shut down Highway 65, a main road about a mile out of town. The actual size of the crowd depends on which local paper you consulted and whether or not the reporter was counting horses and goofy teenagers, including a group of us watching with a bird’s eye view on the roof of the old Main Street drug store.

Ghosts used to pop up all over Zearing when I’d drive through, but most of my historical icons have drifted away. The high school consolidated and moved to a town ten miles down the road. The hardware store is boarded up, and the newspaper office is now the town’s only pub. Establishments close, occasionally a new one opens, and the town still has a detectable pulse. But for some of us, the beat got dimmer years ago when Pooch died. Before leaving town, I often drive by the vacant lot that once featured the easy-going man who was at the heart of the community for us kids.

In the 1960s, Pooch’s gas station sat just off Main Street, but in some ways it was in its own time zone. You would eventually get your tank filled, and you might get your windshield washed, but if you were in a hurry, you soon adapted to Pooch’s own version of self-service: Go ahead. You know how the pump works. He might be busy in the grease pit, or he might be on the padded wooden bench, opening his tobacco pouch and listening to one of the locals saying, You got some mighty big horseweeds along the side of the building, Pooch.

Ain’t that the truth. Oh well, the frost’ll get ’em soon enough. Lighting his pipe and talking with friends outranked weed-eating on his priority list. So did having a cup of coffee with his wife, Hazel. His house