Dear Farm Journal,
It has been 5 months since the brutal August heat sent me reeling out of the greenhouses, and now it is winter…my favorite time to work in the greenhouses.Today I rage ripped greenhouse number 3. Let me explain. Rufus and I have our most infamous fights over farm budget conversations, and I usually take a few days to recover. Now, when I say fight, I mean we go over the budget, he remains annoyingly optimistic and calm, and I freak out and shut down. This is because we barely break even after busting our asses. First, this upsets my injustice radar as well as infuriates my sense of security. It is absolutely ridiculously unjust that the two of us work so hard at trying to make a wholesome living and provide incredible food for less than minimum wage. Secondly, I do not understand Rufus’s serene demeanor while looking at budget numbers that spell disaster. So, my underdeveloped coping mechanism is to shut down, drink copious amounts of beer, sleep on the couch, wake up and take my frustration out on hours of hard labor, aka, rage ripping a greenhouse down. There was so much giant ragweed in greenhouse 3 that anyone with allergies would have died upon their first inhalation of the air inside. Secondly, I crawled through at least 4 identifiable types of shit while ripping weeds and debris out from under the planting tables; rabbit, dog, cat, and mouse. This made me question my entire career in farming. I mean, I just graduated with a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University, and I am choosing to crawl around in shit. The paradox of farming is complicated.