Politics on the Prairie

We’uns is enjoyin’ our retirement out here on Orwell Acres. It ain’t no retirement village like what they have down in Florida, it’s a hobby farm owned by our son and his wife where we have a house on one corner. I reckon I could make me a golf course on it if I was a mind to; which I ain’t – golf’s just a waste a good fishin’ weather.
We live in the midst o' that big meadow they call the Great Plains. Once they get the corn down we’ll be able to look out at our bedroom winder an' see the big windmill farm 'bout ten miles away. Big silver trees that look like the landscape of some star wars planet an' when we get a red sunset its kinda romantic lookin’. ‘Course at night we can’t see the windmills themselves, just the cluster a red lights that tell airplanes they’re there. Sure we got us airplanes out here, they scare the beejeebees outta the animals when they’re a-dustin’ off the crops in our neighbors’ fields. I swear one of ‘em dragged 'is landin’ gear ‘cross the barn roof one day while I was inside. Gave me the same sensation Chris Matthews had when he first heard Obama fling out one a his speeches.
We see big planes too, but they don’t look very big ‘cause they’re so far up there when they go by. We know they’re there mostly by the way they scribble up a perfectly clear blue sky with their dadburned con-trails. It occurred to me the other day that if they was to land one a them planes out in Mike’s hay field it would double the population of the county. But they won’t do it. We’re in what the smarty-pants in Noo Yawk an’ Sam Friscer calls “fly-over country.” Them smarty-pants would be eatin’ sewer rats if it wasn’t for this here fly-over country. When they smear their corn-based margarine on their whole wheat muffins they ought to thank the God they don’t believe in for these hard workin’ farmers in fly-over America. Even their tofu is made from the beans that are bein’ harvested down the road right now.
Folks ask me what population centers we live near. I reckon the international space station is about as close as any other – and nearly as populated. It’s twenty-five miles to the nearest traffic light and it’s just a part-timer. Changes from green t’ yeller t’ red durin’ the day (lotsa fun t’ set an’ look at on a slow day), but come nightfall it goes t’ just blinkin’ red. You can see her nearly ten miles off on a dark night ‘cause there ain’t no curves nor humps in the road t’ block your vision.
Bein’ a hillbilly I do get homesick for the mountain where we lived in Arkansas way long time back. When the nostalgia gets real bad I drive over t’ the high school where they have a ball diamond and walk out on the pitcher’s mound just t' have me somethin’ t’ climb. Y' sure can see a long way from up there.
After y' get t' the traffic light I was mentionin’; y’ must know – if y’ know anythin' atall ‘bout America – t'won’t be much further t' the Wal-Mart store. The wife has a thing ‘bout Wal-Mart. We even had to hunt one up when we were in Mexico City. Funny thing is, that one had signs in Spanish and English. Reckon do the people that live down there complain ‘bout the foreigners that don’t speak their language?
The wife used to have a sign over her desk at work that said, “if you don’t find me here and I’m not at home, I’ll be at Wal-Mart.” There was one day she’d gone out an' I needed t' get in touch with her. This was way back when we didn’t carry telephones in our pockets. I just called down t’ the Wal-Mart an’ gave the lady my wife’s description an’ asked had she seen ‘er. She said, “you must mean Shirley – I’ll call back to the craft department.” ‘Course that’s right where she was. She was so well known there she had her own parkin' space.
Fact is, she used t’ work at a Wal-Mart – back when we lived in a suburb of St. Louie. She was one a those that rang up the merchandise and took the money. That was way back before they taught the check-out counters t’ read an’ write, so she had t’ actually ring the stuff up her own self. Doncha wonder why a country that can teach machines t’ read an’ write can’t teach its kids?
I don’t want folks t’ think we’uns don’t have nothin’ t’ do here or that we’uns is disconnected from the rest o’ the world. Amongst all of us we put in a really big garden an’ we got a whole pantry full a canned food an’ the wife done made the most bodashus apple butter from the tree outside her studio winder an’ we got a big ol’ crabapple tree that my wife she made a load a jelly from it t’ smear on homemade biscuits – Oh my goodness that Jelly’s good.
Our son and me, we raise our own meat (WARNING! PETA folks may find the following discussion disturbing to their peace of mind – I sure hope so). We built us a goat pen over on the North side of the property – we call it ‘the studio.’ Our flock a Nannies we call ‘the view.’ ‘Course the alpha nanny – the one what bosses the rest of ‘em around, tol’ us her own name right off – said “Bah-bah-wah-wah” plain as day and all the rest of ‘em went t’ chantin’ in unison, “Bah-bah-wah-wah, Bah-bah-wah-wah.” So we knew she was gonna be the boss lady of the flock. She’s in the family way now and so is Whoopi – ol’ Slick Billy has a smug look on ‘is face.
Since she’s eatin’ for three (goats generally have twins) Bah-bah-wah-wah wants more than her share of the food and sometimes gets grouchy – soon's she catches ‘Lizabeth at the manger she’ll just lower her head and butt her away so she can have more – Whoopi, she does the same. Its real funny when there’s nannies at both ends a the manger an’ Bah-bah-wah-wah spends all her time runnin’ from one end t’other a-buttin’ them away but never gettin’ t’ eat ‘cause she’s ‘fraid one a them others is gonna get t’ eat. We humans could learn a lot from goats and I reckon we have.
We had one name of Rosie but she never had no kids so we ate her. Did y’all know that 70% of the meat eaten on this here warmin’ up globe is from goats?
Goats aren’t all we have here on Orwell Acres. There’s a big ol’ Holstein steer name of Porter. The grandkids named him that ‘cause they understand what he’s doin’ here. Not like kids in Phillydefya an’ Lost Angels that think hamburger comes from the back end of a McDonalds. These kids have seen hogs butchered an' deer dressed out. Theirs is not a ‘virtual’ world. Reckon Sary’s kids has seen moose an’ caribou skinned. I hear Polar bear tastes purty good, but for my own part I like a black bear roast with horseradish.
Porter is the most political of the animals on Orwell Acres. A feller can’t hardly walk where Porter’s been ‘thout gettin’ inta a bunch a political speeches – that’s what we call ‘em ‘cause y’ can’t tell when the kids might be a-listenin’. That two-tone calf makes more political speeches than Barack an’ Joe put t’gether – better ones too. It’s s’ bad I have t’ take off my boots ‘fore goin’ inta the house an’ I scrub ‘em often. I always scrub out my ears too after listenin’ t’ one or t’other a these here polytishuns.
Somebody asked if I wasn’t bothered by the smell. Well, I got used t’ the smell a the steel mills in Cleveland an’ the smell a the Orange Juice plant in Florida, I can get used t’ ol’ Porter. It’s the stink a them polytishuns I can’t get used to.
Lately we’ve made an investment in Freddie Mac an’ Fannie Mae. Freddie’s a barrow an’ Fanny’s a gilt. For you folks that think a gilt is some British bond it’s not. An’ for you folks that think the only British Bond is named James, a British treasury note is named after gilts. They’s pigs y’all, pigs – we’uns gonna be feedin’ at the Freddie Mac an’ Fanny Mae pork barrel jus’ like them high fallutin’ Harvard boys settin’ round in the senate blowin’ farts at one another. Last year’s hogs has nearly all 'scaped the freezer, one pork chop at a time. Don’t none a y’all let on ‘bout Freddie an’ Fanny t’ them PETA folks.
Oh Darn! Y’all pardon my language please. It’s ol’ Porter. Just like a polytishun, he’s done got over inta Fannie an’ Freddie’s pen an’s eatin’ up all their food. I got t’ go run ‘im out in the congress (that’s what we call the pasture) so he can live off the fat of the land and make lots more political speeches.