Step Away from the Broom and Nobody Gets Hurt

Life in the country means you are a long way down a bumpy road far away from stores where you can buy stuff. And this pretty much guarantees that you are not going to buy very many new things every year. Foolishly, one could assume that farm and ranch folks, therefore, avoid being victims of materialism. One might even assume that with their simple shopping-free lives, these folks have transcended material needs.



But, no. What happens at farms across America is a rare form of object-attachment, the likes of which I've never read in psychology books or sociology classes. In a nutshell, farm owners form strange bonds with their tools. It may derive from the fact that sometimes whole days will pass with barn chores, feeding animals, and zero human interaction. Pretty soon, the farm owner finds herself talking out loud to the pitchfork. I call this The Great Rake Affliction.



Most often, it begins benignly. Over many months of barn chores, an individual begins to favor a particular tool-- pitchfork, shovel, rake, fork. The individual convinces him or herself this loyalty is due to the tool's superior qualities like sturdiness and weight. But in reality, favoring one pitchfork over another has little to do with superiority. It's just what someone gets attached to, like a favorite pair of jeans or chipped coffee mug. As with other favorite things, uncomfortable feelings can arise should someone try to borrow the preferred tool. Eventually, the barn owner stops sharing completely-- no matter how politely someone might ask to borrow it-- and develops a habit of hiding the treasured tool even at the risk of forgetting where she stashed it.



A couple years ago, I helped a friend organize some paperwork for her divorce. An exceptionally generous and affluent woman, she was willing to let most of her beautiful ranch's property go to her husband. She made a short list of the things she felt belonged exclusively to her: Kubota tractor, two Andalusian stallions, two saddles, and the Ames True Temper steel shovel.

"Is this $20 shovel really that important?" I asked. Compared with the equipment and magnitude of expenses involved with her divorce, it seemed so trivial. She wasted no time to tell me how much she loved that shovel. Replacing it with another one just wouldn't be acceptable. In fact, if forced to choose between one of her fancy Andalusian stallions and that shovel, she said she would be hard pressed.

Huh?

"You know how it is when you have a favorite shovel," she reasoned. "I use it every morning. There's no way I'm leaving it here for other people to use. It's just a...just... it's just a really good shovel."

I let the issue go before things got any more emotional. I should have known better anyway. Not only did both my mother and father hide their favorite pitchforks in secret crannies around the farm when I was growing up but eventually they began locking them up in padlocked closets, safeguarding them even from each other.

This tool loyalty escalated over the years, building up to a high-speed chase after one of our neighbors. Much remains in my memory from that day of squealing tires, mom's use of swear words I'd never heard before, and teeth-clenched terror about her reckless driving. Above all, my 13-year old brain struggled to understand how there could possibly be so much drama over a leaf rake.

It all happened when my mom, who got a bit thirsty while raking leaves, leaned her rake against our mailbox to duck inside the house for some iced tea. As she poured herself a glass at the kitchen table, she saw through the screen door a small red truck slow down by the mailbox and then stop. A young man wearing Wranglers and a flannel shirt darted from the driver's side, tossed her rake in his pick-up, and drove away. My mother slammed down her glass and bolted down the front steps, at this point yelling as if someone had just set fire to her house. Not one to miss out on any action, I followed on her heels as she jumped into her Dodge Ram truck and floored the gas pedal. Spinning gravel and dust in every direction, she got that truck to within 100 feet of the thief in sheer seconds. He spotted us in his rear view mirror and tried to ditch us, foolishly believing he might outrun this crazy 5'2" woman behind him driving her over-sized truck at speeds well beyond her skill.

We skidded around tight corners on our narrow road, launched the front wheels airborne over potholes, racing at speeds typically reserved for law enforcement officials and Nascar drivers. My mom alternated between waving her middle finger out the window and maniacally honking the horn. Whenever she found the chance on a straightaway, she flashed her lights and stuck her head out the window to yell every manner of insult and cuss word. I clenched my jaw and dug my fingers into the seat cushion. The outside world sped by so rapidly that trees, road, sky all blurred together into a bluish gray streak. Now terrified, I wondered how long can a high speed chase for a leaf rake possibly last?

Finally, we barrelled to the three-way intersection of Route 12 and West Street and the rake thief accelerated to blast through it but then thought better and allowed his vehicle to slow down and drift to the shoulder. He exited his truck and sheepishly awaited the berating coming his way. The tall muscular young man hung his head as my mother pounced on him, reaching up to grab his lapels and assuring him eternal bad karma and damnation unless he could scrounge up a very compelling excuse for stealing her rake. The best he mustered was a whimper that he thought nobody would notice if he stole it.

Mom made a few unsavory comments about an obviously low I.Q., sub par morals, and idiotic judgment as she released him and retrieved her rake. With the prized possession, we drove slowly and quietly back home. Mom appeared almost giddy after the drama of the chase and having reclaimed her property. In fact, she was so relieved that I'm not sure it occurred to her how lucky we were to be alive. And therein lies the message of my story. Nothing comes between a farmer and his or her tools. Nothing. Consider this advance warning the next time you consider helping yourself to a seemingly innocuous shovel or pitchfork. You just might find yourself the recipient of cuss words you never imagined a farm tool could inspire.