A Love Letter to the Angry Man in the Truck. (This is a long post — if reading is hard, then please skip.)
Howdy, neighbor.
I just wanted to thank you for stopping near my home today to educate me about the dangers of having a truck parked on the shoulder of my own yard for approximately ten terrifying minutes.
The truck was there because I was having a load of gravel dumped into my driveway, and I was already standing there jingling the keys in my hand to let you know I was actively moving it.
But why let visible evidence interrupt a perfectly good roadside investigation?
You needed answers.
Do I live here?
Why is the truck there?
Who gave me permission?
Where was my dedicated traffic-control crew?
Was the gravel delivery part of some larger city-folk conspiracy to destabilize rural Ohio?
I’m also deeply sorry that I failed to request your permission before briefly parking a truck on the shoulder of my own property.
You were absolutely right.
I should have submitted the appropriate paperwork, notified the township, shut down Fairplay Road, hired a certified traffic-control crew, installed temporary stoplights, brought in two flaggers, and flown in a state-approved gravel delivery coordinator.
Instead, I recklessly jingled my keys and moved the truck.
Like an animal.
When you started asking personal and invasive questions about whether I lived at the address, I told you it was none of your concern.
That seemed to upset you.
Apparently, the same man deeply concerned about property boundaries also feels entitled to a complete residential background check from the window of his pickup truck.
Then came the accusation.
I’m “city folk who come in and change everything.”
And you know what?
You got me.
I moved into the old cabin that had been sitting neglected, started cleaning up the overgrown property, repaired things, built fences, brought in animals, improved the driveway, and committed the unforgivable rural crime of maintaining the place where I live.
The horror.
I sincerely apologize that the abandoned-cabin aesthetic has been disrupted by full-time residents, gravel, livestock, landscaping, and basic property maintenance.
I understand that change can be frightening.
Yesterday, there were weeds.
Today, there is gravel.
Tomorrow, perhaps indoor plumbing.
Where does it end?
Something tells me you were a hall monitor in fourth grade.
Not just any hall monitor, either.
You were the kind who brought his own clipboard from home, wore the little orange sash with pride, and wrote down names even when the teacher wasn’t looking.
I’m guessing you always dreamed of becoming a police officer, but somewhere along the way you discovered the academy requires more than pointing at things from a white pickup truck and demanding to know where strangers live.
So now you patrol side roads voluntarily, protecting the community from its greatest threat:
A farm truck parked for ten minutes while gravel was delivered. That you could clearly drive around without any issue.
Thank you for your service.
As you became increasingly angry, I smiled and blew you a kiss, because I believe in loving thy neighbor, especially when thy neighbor appears to be one minor inconvenience away from fist-fighting a mailbox or windmill.
You responded by proudly raising one finger as you drove away in rage.
And good sir, you are absolutely correct.
I am number one in my world.
Thank you for recognizing it.
I have also included a photograph of a baby goat in hopes that it helps calm thee nerves.
Should a warm shot of fresh goat’s milk tickle your fancy, I currently have two ripe goat udders standing by and ready to serve.
I know you country folks must enjoy that sort of goats milk thing.
Personally, I prefer my milk squeezed from almonds.
Which raises an important question.
Almonds do not have nipples. So who exactly is milking them? Honestly, it should be called nut juice, but I digress.
I cannot wait until you fully realize that the tattooed hippie wearing a purple velvet Willy Wonka hat is not going anywhere.
In fact, your warm welcome has inspired me.
I may purchase an army of plastic flamingos.
I may paint my life-size Bigfoot statue hot pink.
I may fly a Pride flag because this is America, and I support every member of this community, including the ones who came here from the terrifying, lawless wilderness known as “the city.”
Maybe I’ll install a giant peace sign. Or a wall just so I can practice my mural painting skills.
Maybe my Bigfoot statue will wear a feather boa and have sassy outfits for each day of the week. I have that kinda free time. Trust me.
This is still a developing creative direction.
Life is painfully short.
Why spend it furious because somebody parked a truck for ten minutes?
Take a breath.
Pet a dog.
Hold a baby goat.
Drink some nut juice.
Wave more than one finger at a neighbor.
Maybe even blow somebody a kiss and give them a wink with a thumbs up.
You seem like a man who desperately needs a hug, and unfortunately for both of us, I am just weird enough to offer one.
See you around, neighbor.
I’ll be the happy guy improving his property, raising goats, wearing the weird hat, and minding his own damn business.
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.