Dear County Agent Guy

by Jerry Nelson

  I found that many of Old Frank’s tales shared common themes. These included: Work hard; buy low, sell high; hang on to every nickel you can; and, above all, a little luck never hurt anybody. In fact, I believe that Old Frank was the luckiest man I ever met.

  When he was about eighty-five, Old Frank decided to buy a newer, larger house. True to form, he eschewed the assistance of professional movers, choosing instead to press into service assorted acquaintances and neighborhood kids for the task.

  When he was all moved into his new digs, Old Frank came to me and confessed that he had a problem. It seems that there was only one small item left to move that he and the neighborhood kids couldn’t tackle: an ancient and massive Wells Fargo safe that inhabited his basement. I suggested that perhaps it was finally time to call professional movers, and he said that he already had.

  “A hunnert dollars!” he exclaimed. “They want a hunnert dollars! And it’s only two blocks! Why, they wouldn’t even use a dime’s worth of gas and they still have the nerve to charge an old man that much!”

  I told him I didn’t see any way around it. Old Frank smiled at me and said, “I know a guy who owns a pickup . . .”

  The next day, I found myself jockeying my pickup into position up against the landing that led to Old Frank’s house. He had scrounged up some used planks to lay on the stairs and had borrowed a hand-operated cable winch that looked old enough to have hoisted Hannibal’s elephants up the slopes of the Alps.

  We put the planks on the stairs and threw a sturdy chain around the old safe. I attached the winch to my pickup, hooked the cable to the safe, and commenced winching. Old Frank insisted on staying below and behind the safe to supervise and to steer.

  The rusty cable groaned and twanged under the tension as the safe inched its way up the planks. I expected something to give at any moment and anticipated the difficulty I would have in explaining why there was this very old and very flat man lying dead in his basement. But Old Frank’s luck held, and the safe was soon resting in the pickup. My truck’s rear end hung so low, I was afraid that its bumper would cut furrows in the driveway.

  On my way out of the yard, I misjudged slightly and nudged the neighbor lady’s concrete birdbath with my bumper. The birdbath fell over and broke in two. Frank scowled and I empathized, saying, “Gee, that’s too bad. I bet a new birdbath’s gonna cost you about a hundred bucks.”

  No sooner had I said that than the neighbor lady stuck her head out the door and said, “It broke? Good! Will you haul that piece of junk away for me? I’d appreciate it.”

  But Old Frank’s luck didn’t end there. A few days later, he opened the safe to discover it contained a pile of old war bonds that he had forgotten. The interest they had accrued in the forty-plus years that had passed nearly paid for his new house.

  Old Frank continued to come out to our farm almost daily. And every time he stopped for a visit, he would regale us with the same set of shopworn yarns, although his “raising fat hogs” story acquired a new twist. “And I put all the money into war bonds,” he would conclude. “And I never made so darn much money in my entire life!”

  My wife and I would simply smile and nod as we listened. After all, we had recently acquired—for free!—a slightly used, glommed-together-with-concrete-adhesive birdbath. And a colorful anecdote about how we came to own it. •

  The Lady Vet

  The doctor pressed her stethoscope against the cow’s flank and thumped her finger against the bovine’s belly as if she were checking on the ripeness of a gigantic, hairy watermelon. She had big brown eyes and weighed perhaps 110 pounds. The lady vet, that is; the cow, a Holstein, clocked in at about three-quarters of a ton.

  “She has a displaced abomasum,” murmured the lady vet.

  Like any good dairy farmer, I knew that cows have a multichambered digestive system that is more complicated than the seating arrangement at a royal wedding. It had never occurred to me that a cow could somehow lose track of one of her stomachs.

  “Not misplaced. Displaced,” explained the lady vet. “Her abomasum has floated around to the wrong side. Nothing can get through, like when you twist a garden hose.”

  Eager to assuage the agony of my unfortunate ungulate, I asked about options.

  “We could operate,” said the lady vet, “or we could roll her.”

  It pained me to point out the obvious; namely, that the cow likely didn’t own anything worth stealing. Lots of cowhide, but no wallet.

  “What I mean is that we would lay the cow down and roll her over. Sometimes when we do that we can get the abomasum to shift back into place.”

  I replied that this plan sounded excellent except for the “lay the cow down” and “roll her over” parts. My experience was that it’s extremely difficult to tip a cow, urban legend notwithstanding. Did I mention that the lady vet weighed perhaps 110 pounds? And I’m no Hercules.

  “Not a big deal,” she replied. “We’ll just use the lariat.”

  The lady vet produced a lariat and looped it around the cow in several places, employing some mystical rope-tying technique that must have been handed down to her by a sage old cow shaman. When all was ready, she grabbed the rope and pulled. The cow responded by gently lying down.

  Then came the exciting part. Cows do NOT enjoy being grabbed by their legs and rolled back and forth. Much cursing and sweating and grunting and dodging of flailing hooves ensued. Did I mention that the cow weighed three-quarters of a ton? And that I’m no Hercules?

  At length the lady vet called a halt to our labors. She again thumped upon and listened to the cow’s flank. Breaking into a grin, she said, “I think we did it!”

  And so we had. We let the cow rejoin her herd mates, and she moseyed over to the bunk and commenced to munching hay.

  I was deeply pleased. The cow had dodged the surgery bullet and I had learned that cow tipping is a real—and useful—activity.

  I asked the good doctor what types of animals had come under her care.

  “Snakes, rabbits, birds, you name it,” she replied. “If it was on Noah’s ark, I’ve probably treated it. Lizards. A camel. Water buffalo.”

  Impressed by her repertoire, I decided to put the lady vet to the test. I pointed to a nearby mother cat who was zealously grooming herself. The cat did this a lot; her life seemed to be an unending stream of bathing emergencies.

  “Probably has fleas,” said the lady vet. “Stop by my office and we’ll give you a special shampoo for your cat.”

  Hearing the words “shampoo” and “cat” in the same sentence evoked emotions akin to hearing the words “nuclear” paired with “bomb.” Even so, it seemed like an astute diagnosis.

  Our farm mutt had been hanging around this whole time, supervising. I showed the lady vet a spot where the canine’s coat had become thin and patchy.

  “Could be ringworm,” she said. “Stop by my office and we’ll give you a special ointment.”

  I asked the lady vet if casual exposure to these ointments and shampoos would be hazardous for humans.

  “No,” she replied. “But it would likely clear up any fleas or ringworm you might have.”

  Striving to hide my sudden feelings of deep gladness, I asked the lady vet about some other symptoms. They included foul moods and intestinal bloating and cramping, which were inevitably followed by explosive eruptions that, reportedly, were loud enough to be heard in the next county.

  “What species are we talking about?” she asked.

  I admitted that the symptoms described were actually mine.

  “It would be totally unethical for me to treat a human,” she said. “But I could probably do a quick exam. Here, let’s loop this lariat around you.” •

  Don Quixote, Tax Reformer

  He stopped by my farm again last August, the old knight. I had just finished another hot, sweaty day of field work and was headed toward
the house when the thunder of hoofbeats announced his arrival.

  He reined his steed to a halt a few yards from me and I took a good look at him; I hadn’t seen him since the first Tuesday of the previous November. His armor was now dented and tarnished, and the grime coating it evidently the residue from some horrendous mud fight. Nevertheless, he was in high spirits.

  “Salutations, good yeoman!” he boomed as he lifted the visor of his helmet. “I come today bearing glad tidings!”

  I was instinctively leery because the last time he brought “glad tidings,” he told me that I had just become the proud owner of some free grain. He neglected to disclose that it was stored somewhere on the Falkland Islands. I hoped he would go away soon, and yet I was curious. “What have you been up to now?” I inquired.

  “Why, tax cuts, my good man, tax cuts! And a balanced budget to boot! I have it all here”—he dug into his saddlebag—“and I’m certain I have something which will be of interest to you!”

  At length he extracted a fistful of papers. “Ah, here we are! Estate taxes! I have magnanimously increased the amount that is exempt from estate taxes! Doesn’t that sound grand?”

  “But wouldn’t I have to die in order to take advantage of it?”

  “Well, yes, yes, that’s true. But I’m sure you’ll agree that this is a relatively minor detail!”

  “Even so, I think I’ll pass.”

  The knight pressed on, unfazed. “Never fear!” he said as he continued to burrow into his saddlebag. “I have more! Much more! Here we go! Perhaps you would enjoy this superb investment tax credit?”

  “Say what?”

  “I will explain,” he said as he looked around. “Ah! Say that you sell yon cow . . .”

  “Lulu Belle? She’s not for sale. We use her as the family milk cow.”

  “Yes, yes. But say that you sell her. Some of the profits will be exempt via an investment tax credit!”

  “But what would we do for milk?” I asked.

  The old knight scowled for a moment, but quickly brightened, saying, “Why, of course! You could BUY milk with your tax savings!”

  “Well, we’ve sorta become attached to old Lulu Belle.”

  “I see. Hmmm . . . this is a difficult case. Yes, most difficult . . . I have it! Are you the head of the household?”

  I glanced around to make certain that my wife was out of earshot. “Yeah,” I said at last.

  “Good! And you have children?”

  “Two boys.”

  “Excellent! You are automatically eligible for the increase of the per-child standard deduction! And if you have a child in college, you save even more! You simply fill out form 1827A, and if line 37 is less than line 26 and if your adjusted gross income is more than line 52 on Schedule WZ . . . By the way, do you recall what phase the moon was in at the time of your birth? Oh, never mind. Here.”

  He shoved both hands into his saddlebag and hauled out a bulky volume. “It’s all explained in this,” he said as he gave me the massive book. “These are all the changes to the tax code that were just enacted. It’s all there in plain English.”

  I thumbed through the pages of gibberish. “Good grief!” I exclaimed. “It’ll take an army of accountants and lawyers to decipher all this!”

  But the old knight was staring off into the distance. “Yes, yes,” he said, distracted. “You can thank me later. I would love to dally but there is important business at hand. I must go now and slay yonder giant!”

  He lowered his visor and hefted his lance. Spurring his mount, he cried, “Heigh-ho, Gridlock! Onward!” He galloped away, and ere he topped the hill, called out, “Remember me at the ballot box!”

  “I will!” I hollered back. “I will!”

  Just then, my wife walked out of the house. “Who was that?” she wondered.

  “Oh, it was just that ditzy Quixote guy again.”

  “The congressman? What did he want this time?”

  “Nothing. In fact, he was giving out tax breaks today. He claims they’re all here in this big old book in some sort of secret code. I figure we can use it for kindling next winter.”

  My wife, ever the practical one, looked through it a moment and decided, “No, let’s keep it. I bet it would be a big hit at the Annual Teeth-Gnashing and Hair-Pulling Festival next April. Now come on in, supper’s on.”

  “In a minute, dear, in a minute. It’s always fun to watch him prang off the side of that windmill.” •

  Farm Supply Stories

  Our town has one of those mega-huge farm supply outlets. It’s the kind of store where you will find everything from panty hose to garden hoes to hydraulic hose. It’s a place where you can buy such things as birdseed (if you want to grow birds) or duct tape (if you want to tape ducks) or gravity wagons (if you need to haul gravity).

  A farm supply store is a mecca for farmers on rainy days. If you were to step into such an establishment during a monsoon, you might fall under the mistaken impression that seed corn caps are required for admission.

  You will see farmers—muddy boots and all—swapping stories, telling jokes, and generally having a farmer’s version of a jolly good time. Their wives will be participating in their own form of amusement, which usually involves prowling the clothing department, hunting for that ever-elusive clearance sale tag.

  A farm supply store can also be a wonderful place to take your wife on a date. This is especially true during Hotdog Days, when you can purchase a hotdog and a soda for pocket change. Your wife might not consider it a “real” date, but who can pass up a romantic rendezvous that costs only two bucks?

  It makes you wonder how farmers managed to socialize before there were farm supply stores. When I was a youngster, we had this local event called a baling run.

  The baling run that we belonged to consisted of half a dozen neighborhood farmers. One member was my dad’s brother Coke, another was their uncle Stanley, and another was Martin, our Norwegian bachelor neighbor. These farmers all had a couple of things in common: They each had hay that needed baling, and they shared ownership in an ancient New Holland baler.

  That old baler looked positively prehistoric. It was a massive conglomeration of gears and flywheels. Its main feature was a hay-packing apparatus that looked like a dragon’s head. The packer mechanism would swing up and down with a rhythmic “chunka, chunka” sound, causing us kids to nickname the baler the chunka, chunka machine.

  When the hay was deemed ready, a crew of neighborhood men, along with a fleet of assorted tractors and hay wagons, would assemble on the headland of the selected hay field. The men laughed and joked, filling the air with a carnival-like spirit.

  As a little kid, I wasn’t allowed to do much other than watch. Not that I didn’t want to help. I would have liked nothing better than to throw those dusty, itchy bales of hay and to toil and sweat and spit like the men.

  Sometimes the cottony clouds of morning would clump together and transform into the ominous thunderheads of afternoon. The flicker of lightning and the rumble of thunder would announce that Thor was swinging his mighty hammer against his anvil in the sky. The air would become so thick and oppressive that it felt more like a slurry than a gas.

  A sweeping wall of rain would chase the baling crew from the field. The men would gather in the doorway of our barn, smoking and swapping jokes as fat raindrops exploded against the roof and the hissing downpour cooled and cleansed the sweltering summer air.

  I clearly recall the smells of that old barn. There was the musk of sweaty men mingled with the fragrance of freshly baled alfalfa. The essence of cow manure mixed with the incense of cigarette smoke and the aroma of axle grease. It was wonderful.

  It was during one of these enforced rest periods that my uncle Coke first showed me that old “pull my finger” trick. Gales of laughter filled the barn at the sight of my surprised expression. I spent the rest o
f that day tugging on my finger, desperately hoping that I had inherited Coke’s talent.

  Many things have changed since then. Most farmers have their own balers or hire someone to bale their hay. Baling runs have largely become a thing of the past.

  One summer afternoon when our two sons were young, the skies opened and it began to pour, so the family and I opted to drive to town and pick up some essentials. Our first stop was—of course!—the farm supply store.

  As we entered the emporium, I said to our boys, “You know what this place needs? It needs some bales of hay so that all these farmers can sit a spell and feel more at home. Say, that reminds me of something. Come here and pull my finger.” •

  Lutefisk Season

  Each year the holiday season brings with it all those holiday stresses and strains, like cleaning the house for the relatives, cooking banquet-sized meals for the relatives, and putting up with the relatives’ bratty kids. Other than that, it is a relatively happy time of the year.

  One of the biggest sources of stress around my household at this time involves the cultural chasm that exists between my German-blooded wife and Norwegian me: the cultural chasm called lutefisk. For the uninitiated, lutefisk is created as so: You start out with a big honking fillet of North Atlantic cod. As delectable as this might be, one must take a good thing and improve upon it, which is typical of the Norwegian mind-set. You age this cod fillet in the sun for a spell (unbelievers call it “letting it rot”), then steep the now stiff-as-a-board hunk of fish in a vat of lye water (infidels call it “soaking it in poison”). All that’s left is to thoroughly rinse it in fresh water, boil it up, drown it in melted butter, and . . . mmmm! My mouth waters at the mere thought of this gastronomic delight!