The Nabes

One of the things I've found most frustrating about living out here in the stix is that "service" people (aka electricians; jacks-of-all-trades; construction workers; masons; excavators, etc. etc.) either a) never return our phone calls or b) schedule appointments and then stand us up without bothering to let us know they won't be here. I've never known why, thinking perhaps its because our jobs here are too small, or gas prices are too high to wander this far to give an estimate, or maybe because something better comes along or the Packers game goes into overtime.

At any rate, I had a little "aha" moment when our friend Dave came over the other night. Dave is basically like a character written especially for our little drama here on the farm. He's got "classic Midwestern farmer" written all over him: not unlike many of our other neighbors here, he's stoic until we get him going (usually by plying him with outlandish questions and a few beers) and seems to enjoy the company. He runs the plow and mower for the county, and will always pull over when he sees us walking, and lately, pops over on his old motorcycle some evenings for a chat on our deck. He seems to be able to fix anything, most recently reviving our riding mower from certain death like the motorized equivalent of Lazarus - all for the ridiculously low price of $20.

So my moment happened after I asked Dave if other city slickers like ourselves had moved out here, and wondered if they stuck around, and Dave, as is his custom, was silent for a space and then said, "Yeah, the ones that don't end up staying out here, they're the ones that pretty much keep to themselves." OOOOOOOooooohhhhhhh, I thought. Mental clicking sound: wheels and cogs making their circular journeys. It all kind of came together for me then, dovetailing with why we can't get a break with the repairmen - here, it's all about relationships. If you want to get something done, make friends with someone around these parts, who is sure to have a brother-in-law who lays foundation. Or a son who installs windows. Or is best friends with the guy who repairs septic tanks. So you don't call somebody when you need something done as much as you might tell them all about it when you run into them at the Colfax Cenex and Farm Supply.

This theory held recently as my farrier (horse foot trimmer for the non-equestrians out there) bailed on me and my horses' feet just got longer and started to chip and I made one frantic phone call after another trying to get ANYBODY to call me back. Meanwhile, a woman I knew who had her baby at the birth center was selling organic, grass-fed beefthat she had raised and butchered herself. Jay went to buy beef from her and learned she had horses and voila, a farrier's phone number materialized out of thin air, and I talked to his wife today.

So those repairmen we wasted time calling at the beginning were most likely out plumbing their sister's daughter's friend's new bathrooms or something.

It's all about community, people!

Living rural takes a particular kind of patience and some specialized learning, to be sure. But I'll trade sitting in a traffic jam for it any day.