The Gentleman Farmer

By Linda Cortright (Reprinted from Wild Fibers Magazine, Spring 2005)

In the ever-growing lexicon of oxymorons, including such timeless favorites as military intelligence and happy marriage, one glaring omission from the list is gentleman farmer. That curious blend of refined comportment, coupled with sweaty overalls and calloused hands, seems as incongruous as a gold-plated manure spreader parked next to an antique Bugatti. And if I am wrong in this assertion, then perhaps my understanding of either “gentleman” or “farmer” is somehow lacking.

Initially, my perception of a gentleman farmer was modeled around my grandfather. An imposing figure standing more than six-foot-six, the benefits of his elongated stature far exceeded just his ability to clean gutters without a ladder. But grandfather was no farmer by birth; he had been a Philadelphia lawyer for nearly 40 years, and it was at the conclusion of his law practice that he “retired” to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and purchased a farm, along with several hundred dairy cows. From that time on he was deemed a Gentleman Farmer. Somehow, the transformation from legal arbiter to “udder manager” miraculously transpired with the passing of a property deed and a chorus of “moos.” And so now I ask myself, after spending the past ten years as a self-professed “lady farmer,” how can the seemingly respectable title of Gentleman Farmer be appropriately ascribed to someone who has never either wielded a pitchfork nor contemplated the hazards of castration during fly season? How can a man, who rises well after dawn and enjoys a little nectar of the Highlands soon after lunch with his Labradors napping dutifully at his feet, have anything in common with my work on the land? Are we really kindred spirits, or merely spirited kin?

Several years back, after both of my grandparents had died and I was cleaning out their attic, I came across no less than five big boxes of papers. Being insatiably curious (read: nosy), I sat down to have a good look. Hopeful that I perhaps might find an ancient bundle of perfume-scented letters, or a long forgotten stash of $100 bills, I was instead inundated by the motherlode of farm receipts: grain bills, hay bills, milk sales, tractor repairs, gasoline tickets, you name it … every last nickel the IRS might have ever queried was perfectly documented in this cornucopia of cancelled checks – clearly the work of someone who was overly cautious or deeply paranoid. There were handwritten bills from Friels – everyone’s favorite hardware store dating back to the late 1800s – and A.J. Cuthbert & Son, the local garage where they always fixed the unfixable. Sadly, neither business is still around. Friels was torn down and replaced by a mini-mall, complete with a phone store and an Ace Hardware and a latté bar, and Cuthbert’s no longer repairs anything, but you can buy a tank of gas using your Mobil pass key and play a video game while you wait.

I continued thumbing through the stack when the waves of nausea began –500 lbs. of grain for $4.27, a bill from the electrician for $3.00, a 10’ watering trough for less than a dollar, and so on and so forth. It’s just as well I never found the receipt for the big tractor or I might still be lying limp on the floor.

Towards the bottom of the box I discovered a stack of old, onion-skinned copies of letters clipped together. Each one was addressed to a Mr. Jonathan Carter, Queenstown, Maryland, and signed by my grandfather from his address in Philadelphia. Hardly the romantic intrigue I was hoping for. The tone of the letters was consistently formal. The salutation was always “Dear Mr. Carter,” never “Jonathan” or “Jon,” and proceeded into a discussion about farm business, including milk production, crop rotation, building maintenance, etc. It soon became clear that Mr. Carter was neither a friend nor a colleague - Mr. Carter was the farm manager… Damn! My pin-striped grandpa with the monogrammed pocket watch hadn’t been tilling the soil with the sweat of his brow after all; he’d been commandeering combines from the comfort of his own urban pasture, while Mr. Carter did all the heavy lifting. There was no dirt under his fingernails, just a slight case of tendonitis from signing all those checks.

But somehow the idea that my grandfather wasn’t really a farmer seems disconcerting after so many years. Had not my own desire to become a farmer been partially born from childhood memories of scrambling about abandoned silos and playing hide-and-go-seek in the cornfields? It certainly wasn’t because I had watched him pounding fence posts at 6:00 am. Was this man, whom I had adoringly called “Whiskers,” someone less than the man I thought him to be? Perhaps he wasn’t really a farmer? Perhaps… he was merely a gentleman.

So what is the definition of a farmer? Is it defined by acreage, age, animal, or income? Can a person who lives in a tarpaper shack with a cluster of chickens rightly share the same title with someone whose fenceline extends further than the Great Wall of China? Of course they can. Farmers come in all shapes and varieties – just like lawyers, some are better than others. As I look out on my barn with its sagging roof and listing foundation, and my herd of precious animals whose value to me could never be measured in dollars and cents, and I gaze down at my “best” pair of jeans stained with worming paste and manure, I ask myself: am I really a Lady Farmer, or merely a woman just trying to get by without the talents of the “dear Mr. Carter”?

	The Gentleman Farmer By Linda Cortright (Reprinted from Wild Fibers Magazine, Spring 2005) In the ever-growing lexicon of oxymorons, including such timeless favorites as military intelligence and happy marriage, one glaring omission from the list is gentleman farmer. That curious blend of refined comportment, coupled with sweaty overalls and calloused hands, seems as incongruous as a gold-plated manure spreader parked next to an antique Bugatti. And if I am wrong in this assertion, then perhaps my understanding of either “gentleman” or “farmer” is somehow lacking. Initially, my perception of a gentleman farmer was modeled around my grandfather. An imposing figure standing more than six-foot-six, the benefits of his elongated stature far exceeded just his ability to clean gutters without a ladder. But grandfather was no farmer by birth; he had been a Philadelphia lawyer for nearly 40 years, and it was at the conclusion of his law practice that he “retired” to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and purchased a farm, along with several hundred dairy cows. From that time on he was deemed a Gentleman Farmer. Somehow, the transformation from legal arbiter to “udder manager” miraculously transpired with the passing of a property deed and a chorus of “moos.” And so now I ask myself, after spending the past ten years as a self-professed “lady farmer,” how can the seemingly respectable title of Gentleman Farmer be appropriately ascribed to someone who has never either wielded a pitchfork nor contemplated the hazards of castration during fly season? How can a man, who rises well after dawn and enjoys a little nectar of the Highlands soon after lunch with his Labradors napping dutifully at his feet, have anything in common with my work on the land? Are we really kindred spirits, or merely spirited kin? Several years back, after both of my grandparents had died and I was cleaning out their attic, I came across no less than five big boxes of papers. Being insatiably curious (read: nosy), I sat down to have a good look. Hopeful that I perhaps might find an ancient bundle of perfume-scented letters, or a long forgotten stash of $100 bills, I was instead inundated by the motherlode of farm receipts: grain bills, hay bills, milk sales, tractor repairs, gasoline tickets, you name it … every last nickel the IRS might have ever queried was perfectly documented in this cornucopia of cancelled checks – clearly the work of someone who was overly cautious or deeply paranoid. There were handwritten bills from Friels – everyone’s favorite hardware store dating back to the late 1800s – and A.J. Cuthbert & Son, the local garage where they always fixed the unfixable. Sadly, neither business is still around. Friels was torn down and replaced by a mini-mall, complete with a phone store and an Ace Hardware and a latté bar, and Cuthbert’s no longer repairs anything, but you can buy a tank of gas using your Mobil pass key and play a video game while you wait. I continued thumbing through the stack when the waves of nausea began –500 lbs. of grain for $4.27, a bill from the electrician for $3.00, a 10’ watering trough for less than a dollar, and so on and so forth. It’s just as well I never found the receipt for the big tractor or I might still be lying limp on the floor. Towards the bottom of the box I discovered a stack of old, onion-skinned copies of letters clipped together. Each one was addressed to a Mr. Jonathan Carter, Queenstown, Maryland, and signed by my grandfather from his address in Philadelphia. Hardly the romantic intrigue I was hoping for. The tone of the letters was consistently formal. The salutation was always “Dear Mr. Carter,” never “Jonathan” or “Jon,” and proceeded into a discussion about farm business, including milk production, crop rotation, building maintenance, etc. It soon became clear that Mr. Carter was neither a friend nor a colleague - Mr. Carter was the farm manager… Damn! My pin-striped grandpa with the monogrammed pocket watch hadn’t been tilling the soil with the sweat of his brow after all; he’d been commandeering combines from the comfort of his own urban pasture, while Mr. Carter did all the heavy lifting. There was no dirt under his fingernails, just a slight case of tendonitis from signing all those checks. But somehow the idea that my grandfather wasn’t really a farmer seems disconcerting after so many years. Had not my own desire to become a farmer been partially born from childhood memories of scrambling about abandoned silos and playing hide-and-go-seek in the cornfields? It certainly wasn’t because I had watched him pounding fence posts at 6:00 am. Was this man, whom I had adoringly called “Whiskers,” someone less than the man I thought him to be? Perhaps he wasn’t really a farmer? Perhaps… he was merely a gentleman. So what is the definition of a farmer? Is it defined by acreage, age, animal, or income? Can a person who lives in a tarpaper shack with a cluster of chickens rightly share the same title with someone whose fenceline extends further than the Great Wall of China? Of course they can. Farmers come in all shapes and varieties – just like lawyers, some are better than others. As I look out on my barn with its sagging roof and listing foundation, and my herd of precious animals whose value to me could never be measured in dollars and cents, and I gaze down at my “best” pair of jeans stained with worming paste and manure, I ask myself: am I really a Lady Farmer, or merely a woman just trying to get by without the talents of the “dear Mr. Carter”? © copyrighted 2005, “Wild Fibers Magazine”