Y’all, I may live dead in the middle of Watsonville. There may be two fields on either side of my house. My uncle and cousin might grow watermelons every year. My sister may have shown steers at the Suwannee River Fair. But farm girl, I am not.
Animals hate me. I could kill a cactus. I’m tellin’ y’all what…there’s a reason I never wore that pretty blue corduroy jacket.
Chicken farming: fail. Us owning chickens was proof that God has a sense of humor. Now, I didn’t even realize we had chickens until about three months after we had gotten them. I think mom’s craft room was being worked on at the time, so our freezers were sitting on our outside porch. I had to run out and find something to cook for Rheba, when I heard this noise behind me. I turned around, and near about had the bejeezus scared out of me. There they all gathered, looking like they were fixin’ to gang up on me and peck at my bare feet. Needless to say, I hauled tater inside, and Rheba probably got spaghetti-o’s that day.
Fast-forward a few years. Those damn chickens had gained a knack for following me around the house. If I was in my bedroom, trying to sleep, they were clucking outside my window. If I moved to the living room, the roosters were crowing right outside of those windows. I hated those damn animals.
Picture it: The Notebook had just come out on DVD. I had waited MONTHS for that day. I was about an hour into the movie, when, low-and-behold the damn rooster had decided to go around to the living room window and start his normal crowing (at three in the afternoon, mind you). Well, I’d had it. I’d beyond had it. I found the closest thing to me and ran outside. Poor Daddy and Dale got an eyeful as I chased the chickens around the yard with a spatula. To this day, those things hate me. I think they’ve passed the story along to their baby chickies.
Plant identification: fail. Aunt Tammy was taking me home for some reason one day. And she happened to notice something growing out in Uncle Greg’s field.
She asked, “Aleta, what are they planting out there?”
“I think it’s watermelons,” I said, only half paying attention. Nevermind the fact it was fall…and those said “watermelons” had knee-high trees coming out of the ground.
Vegetable identification: fail. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how Ryan Weaver ever kept a straight face when he was around me. I would like to think I’ve been fairly successful at all of the jobs that I had, but being a cashier…might not have been my strong suit. God bless that man for his patience.
My first day on the job I mistook a cucumber for a zucchini. In my defense, that was the biggest damn cucumber I’d ever seen.
Then, a few months later, I had the pleasure of helping a little old woman who apparently had a hankerin’ for “crook-neck squash.” Well, I don’t know beans about squash. All I know is that I don’t really care for it. Well, I had to ask the lady what type of squash it was. She replied “crook-neck.” Well, I looked at my list, trying to figure out what number I would ring it up as. “Crook-neck” wasn’t on my list. So, I called Ryan to the front. I asked him. He replied “Aleta, it’s crook-neck.” Well, being both embarrassed, and slightly agitated at whoever had created the almighty and powerful “list of produce” and not put “crook-neck squash” on it, I was on the brink of a spaz attack.
I said “crook-neck isn’t on my list, Ryan!” through clenched teeth.
This only made Ryan laugh. Come to find out… “crook-neck squash” is also known as “yellow squash”…I just hadn’t gotten the memo.
Yes, y’all, you won’t find me on a tractor any time soon. Farm girl, I am not.