I thought I had shapes figured out back in preschool. Circle, square, triangle. Pretty advanced stuff.
Turns out I’ve been freelancing with geometry my whole life because I somehow managed to build a round pen that looks like a circle going through a divorce.
Less tears, more dirt than an episode of Jerry Springer.
One side got the house. The other got custody of the radius.
So… asking for a friend.
Do round pens actually have to be… round?
I know everyone says 50 to 60 feet is the sweet spot. Beyond that, once I run out of fingers and toes, math becomes witchcraft. Numbers bigger than twenty are just rich people’s opinions.
Yesterday the woodland ninja himself, Dale Devore, cleared me a beautiful riding pen. Absolutely crushed it.
Unfortunately, the surveyor was me.
A man who recently asked where hay comes from while standing in a garage full of it.
Apparently those little rectangular bales are hay too. I was expecting the giant tractor-tire marshmallows. That’s on me. It also made me realize Wheaties are basically hay for people. We just throw frosting and a mascot on the box because we’re sophisticated.
So now I don’t own a round pen.
I own a… rounded rectangle.
It’s the PT Cruiser of horse facilities.
Technically functional.
Spiritually disappointing.
Every person that comes over is going to stare at it for thirty seconds before quietly saying, “Huh…”
Not because it’s bad.
Because their brain is trying to solve whatever crime against geometry just happened.
Will my fiancée notice?
Will the horses notice?
Or are horses just standing around thinking, “This idiot feeds us. Let’s not be too hard on him.”
I’m seriously considering deleting this post in 48 hours.
Then, years from now, it’ll become Bloomingdale folklore.
“Didn’t Schricker build a square round pen?”
“I heard it was oval.”
“My cousin said it looked like Ohio.”
No photographs.
No evidence.
Just blurry stories like Bigfoot riding a unicorn through Jefferson County.
And ladies…
Let’s settle this once and for all.
Does an extra two…
Maybe three…
Possibly six inches…
Really matter if it’s a little short?
Relax. We’re still talking about the round pen.
Some of you nearly threw your phone.
The best part is, by the time I finish writing this, I probably could’ve grabbed a shovel and fixed the stupid thing.
But then I’d miss the opportunity to turn another minor inconvenience into a public service announcement about why children shouldn’t be allowed to buy farms.
Is there a Farmer 101 class?
Not farming.
The class BEFORE farming.
“Congratulations, Michael. Today we’ll identify hay, explain circles, introduce left and right, and discuss why measuring is generally considered a good thing.”
I did have one victory today though.
I cut down a three-inch tree.
By myself.
With my electric chainsaw.
Because I couldn’t get the gas one started.
Somewhere, a guy wearing wraparound Oakleys, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that says Gas. Grass. Freedom. just felt his blood pressure spike.
My ego now runs entirely on EGO batteries.
Turns out electric tools are like Crocs.
Everyone talks trash until they’re borrowing yours because theirs won’t start.
Anyway, if you’re anywhere near Bloomingdale this weekend and you’d like to witness what happens when confidence dramatically outpaces competence, send me a DM.
I can’t pay you much.
But I can promise you’ll leave feeling significantly better about your own life choices.
At this point I’m not building a farm.
I’m building a cautionary tale.
One beautifully stupid mistake at a time.
Dispatches like this one are being collected in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer — $40, half of which turns straight into hay for the horses, the mini donkey, and the baby goats. The presses roll when 100 people pre-order.