Suburban Cowboy
In a past life, I suspect my husband was an explorer. A passionate disciple of Stephen Ambrose and similar biographers, Bee’s read up on the exploits of such men as Magellan, Shakleton, and -- above all else -- Lewis and Clark. He was so deep into a Lewis and Clark phase that, for awhile there, I was nearly convinced in one past life he’d actually been Lewis. And Clark.
A quasi-nomad as a child, he spent his boyhood trekking through the desert and the forest, finding adventure where he could. Sometimes it was deep in a canyon in Arizona; sometimes it was forced from a golf course in Connecticut. Had his life taken a different turn, maybe he would today be charting a little-known river in South America, or graphing an ice cap in Antarctica. Maybe. Of course, what with freeze-dried food and satellite phones, exploring is so much less risky than it once was. Your chances of frostbite or death-by-angry-natives are much slimmer than they used to be. And, honestly, what’s the fun in that?
Since the stars have not aligned for him to be an explorer, his greatest wish is to have a little land. He sees himself with a small farm; just a little garden, he tells me, and some sheep and chicken.
“Why,” I ask him, “when there’s a perfectly good BiMart down the road?”
“To be self-sustaining,” he passionately replies.
I consider myself to be An Expert on self-sustainage, as evidenced by the fact that I’ve read all nine of the Little House books. “All it’ll take is one late frost to kill all our crops, and then where would we be? What if coyotes get our sheep? Maybe the chickens will be duds? Furthermore,” I press, “I once learned that anthropologists found an increase in the amount of healed fractures on the bones of women and children only after previous cultures had switched from hunting and gathering to farming, leading these anthropologists to conclude that domestic violence became much more prevalent due to the stresses of farming.”
Bee asks if I’m actually suggesting he’d turn violent if we start farming. “No,” I scoff, “but I might.”
Alright, he just wants a little land, he explains, maybe right here in town. But we’re reasonable about our financial means and, let’s face it, pervasive laziness, so he contents himself by growing a few tomatoes, buying eggs from a neighbor with chickens, and getting much of our produce from the organic market that sets up every Saturday.
God bless the man for causing me to be more ecological. If I get into heaven based on my lessened carbon footprint, it won’t be because of my own actions.
His oldest friends have nicknamed him “The Mormon Housewife”, due to his tendency to collect any and all things useful.
“Look! A box of twenty glass jars for canning preserves!” he exults.
“It’s crap” I disagree.
“I have to keep this stack of broom handles in case a shovel handle breaks later,” he defends.
“It’s crap!” I persist.
“This fifty-five-gallon trash bag full of corks will come in handy some day,” he predicts.
“It’s CRAP!” I insist.
Now we have an extra freezer in our garage, filled with beef. He bought half a cow last year through the organic market, and happily stacked the packages of ribs and flanks and roasts and ground meat until the freezer was bursting at it’s rubber-sealed seams. I actually don’t mind this one; sure, it was a lot of money to plunk down at once, but it’s cheaper in the long run and, yes, healthier for us. If my arteries don’t clog from all that red meat, they probably will anyway from the chemicals in our store-bought chicken.
Plus, it pleases me to feel a little of that pride my husband feels. He likes knowing he can just walk into the garage to get dinner for the next night. He crows over being just a little more self-sustaining. And it makes me happy to make him happy.
The other night, after a meal of ground beef and tomatoes (the third that week), we languished on the couch, watching an old movie. The country hero clarified his lifestyle difference to the city heroine. “I don’t have fancy cars or a pretty apartment,” he explained with dignity. “I’ve got a cow in my backyard.”
Bee turned to me, satisfaction written all over his face. “I’ve got a cow in my freezer,” he happily whispered.
I smiled and patted his knee. “You’re a real cowboy, honey,” I agreed.
A quasi-nomad as a child, he spent his boyhood trekking through the desert and the forest, finding adventure where he could. Sometimes it was deep in a canyon in Arizona; sometimes it was forced from a golf course in Connecticut. Had his life taken a different turn, maybe he would today be charting a little-known river in South America, or graphing an ice cap in Antarctica. Maybe. Of course, what with freeze-dried food and satellite phones, exploring is so much less risky than it once was. Your chances of frostbite or death-by-angry-natives are much slimmer than they used to be. And, honestly, what’s the fun in that?
Since the stars have not aligned for him to be an explorer, his greatest wish is to have a little land. He sees himself with a small farm; just a little garden, he tells me, and some sheep and chicken.
“Why,” I ask him, “when there’s a perfectly good BiMart down the road?”
“To be self-sustaining,” he passionately replies.
I consider myself to be An Expert on self-sustainage, as evidenced by the fact that I’ve read all nine of the Little House books. “All it’ll take is one late frost to kill all our crops, and then where would we be? What if coyotes get our sheep? Maybe the chickens will be duds? Furthermore,” I press, “I once learned that anthropologists found an increase in the amount of healed fractures on the bones of women and children only after previous cultures had switched from hunting and gathering to farming, leading these anthropologists to conclude that domestic violence became much more prevalent due to the stresses of farming.”
Bee asks if I’m actually suggesting he’d turn violent if we start farming. “No,” I scoff, “but I might.”
Alright, he just wants a little land, he explains, maybe right here in town. But we’re reasonable about our financial means and, let’s face it, pervasive laziness, so he contents himself by growing a few tomatoes, buying eggs from a neighbor with chickens, and getting much of our produce from the organic market that sets up every Saturday.
God bless the man for causing me to be more ecological. If I get into heaven based on my lessened carbon footprint, it won’t be because of my own actions.
His oldest friends have nicknamed him “The Mormon Housewife”, due to his tendency to collect any and all things useful.
“Look! A box of twenty glass jars for canning preserves!” he exults.
“It’s crap” I disagree.
“I have to keep this stack of broom handles in case a shovel handle breaks later,” he defends.
“It’s crap!” I persist.
“This fifty-five-gallon trash bag full of corks will come in handy some day,” he predicts.
“It’s CRAP!” I insist.
Now we have an extra freezer in our garage, filled with beef. He bought half a cow last year through the organic market, and happily stacked the packages of ribs and flanks and roasts and ground meat until the freezer was bursting at it’s rubber-sealed seams. I actually don’t mind this one; sure, it was a lot of money to plunk down at once, but it’s cheaper in the long run and, yes, healthier for us. If my arteries don’t clog from all that red meat, they probably will anyway from the chemicals in our store-bought chicken.
Plus, it pleases me to feel a little of that pride my husband feels. He likes knowing he can just walk into the garage to get dinner for the next night. He crows over being just a little more self-sustaining. And it makes me happy to make him happy.
The other night, after a meal of ground beef and tomatoes (the third that week), we languished on the couch, watching an old movie. The country hero clarified his lifestyle difference to the city heroine. “I don’t have fancy cars or a pretty apartment,” he explained with dignity. “I’ve got a cow in my backyard.”
Bee turned to me, satisfaction written all over his face. “I’ve got a cow in my freezer,” he happily whispered.
I smiled and patted his knee. “You’re a real cowboy, honey,” I agreed.
Comments
Post a Comment