I had a notion to marry a farmer once. I was in my late twenties and a member of the Toastmasters public speaking organisation, whose meetings were full of handsome, funny and intelligent farmers. Growing up in a vet’s practice, I knew farming was more hard graft than cute lambs, but still…
Then I went to a ball The ball was organised by Macra na Feirme, which is an organisation for young farmers. Many a marriage was made at a Macra event. That’s how a friend of mine bagged her farmer – and it was she who invited me to the ball.
Photo Description: Here’s a pic of a young man, who may or may not be a farmer, leaning against a fence. He has slicked back dark hair and wears a black shirt and pants.
The ball was at a large hotel and I went as part of a gang made up of sisters, friends and hangers on. The sisters, friends and I all arrived in a glitz of spangles and hope, and found ourselves sitting at a table of handsome, friendly farmers … and their wives and partners.
These women were a splash of cold water in my face. And not, as they might have suspected, because I had designs on their farmers. We, the friends, sisters and I, wore short dresses and carried bags fit only for carrying change. They wore swathes of cloth crossed over their chests and carried bulging mum bags.
We splashed shared bottles of wine into our glasses. They partook of the jugs of diluted orange placed at the centre of each table – they left the drinking to their farmers. We tried to pry them open with a flow of laughter and chat. They answered our questions, but did not speak beyond that.
Later, we took to the dancefloor in a big circle. They stayed where they were. After the music finished, we retreated to a bedroom and asked each other, “Who are these alien creatures? Can they really be the same age as us?”
I could see the life before me as a farmer’s wife, a life weighted by expectation, heavy glances, squinting windows. A world where a loud voice or a second glass of wine would be met by a frown. A life where your words are measured, and you will be told in quiet, forceful ways if those words fall short.
And I said, “No thanks” to that life.
Instead, I moved to a different pasture, one that has brought me to this happy house by the sea where I’m writing this post.
You can chat to me about this newsletter on derbhile@writewords.ie.