Life on the Delta

One of my first orders of business in Mississippi was to wash the sheets, pillowcases and the cover for the comforter on my bed. Once they were all clean, the yurt felt much more welcoming.

The farm here is run by Jon, a divorcee in his mid-40’s. Jon lives in a small house with his aging mother and has a 5-year-old daughter who spends half her time here. He’s super friendly and works part-time as a substitute science teacher when he’s not tending farm. Here on his property, about four acres, he grows a few gardens of cabbages, strawberries, peppers and kale. His main business, however, is livestock. He raises chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese (the latter two mostly for pets), but his primary income comes from breeding goats.

Right now Jon has about 10 goats, and all of them are pregnant except for the single male. One of them, Daisy May, is almost ready to pop, so I may witness a goat birthing in the next few days (keep your fingers crossed—not only that I get to see it, but that I handle it better than that birthing video from 9th grade). Sometimes Jon milks them, but not often. His income comes from selling the kids at livestock auctions.

A very pregnant goat.

My work here so far has been to uproot three gardens overrun by tall, grassy weeds. That occupies most of my 5-hour work days, and I have one day off each week. The weeds look horrendous, but pulling them out is surprisingly easy—partly because I don’t have to be careful about what I pull up (except for a few obvious cabbage plants) and partly because the dry clay soil here lets them go without much effort. I usually have company, either from the turkeys that eagerly dive into the upturned soil in search of bugs or from a gigantic black snake that wanders from garden to garden. I jumped about ten feet the first time I saw that snake. Only moments earlier, Jon told me to watch my step because poisonous snakes are common here. Before it slithered away, I called Jon to come and take a look at it. He assured me it was a non-poisonous king snake, adding that they’re good to have around because they eat the poisonous snakes.

Weeding, before & after.

Everyone in the area here is a big football fan, especially with Ole Miss (U of Mississippi) right up the road. On my second day, it was declared that the college was changing its mascot from the Rebel Colonel to the Rebel Black Bear, the idea being that the colonel had too many ties to Mississippi’s confederate past. Personally, I’m not so sure the black bear is the best choice to eliminate any racial connotations.

That same day, Jon asked me if I wanted to go to a bar with him to watch an Ole Miss game against Alabama. I’m not much of a football fan, but then he warned me there would be some hardcore rednecks there. How could I resist? He chose a bar in Water Valley as opposed to the larger and closer town of Oxford for the sake of avoiding the drunk college crowd. It turned out to be a tame evening, but there was definitely no lack of rednecks. Sorry to say, Ole Miss got slaughtered.

So far, I’m liking Mississippi. The work isn’t difficult and the people couldn’t be nicer. And Jon’s mother makes sure I eat well. She is also insistent that Jon gives me enough time off to see Oxford’s many historic sights. My biggest perk so far was tagging along with Jon when he drove to a feed store in Tupelo. That happens to be Elvis’ hometown. When Jon found out that I’m an Elvis fan(atic), he took a detour to show me the shack where he was born.

It kicked ass.

Birthplace of a king... THE king.

There's Something Therapeutic About Digging a Hole

After my first week here, I felt like a complete slacker. The workdays were too short, the work was too easy and there were too many breaks. I came out here to live the farm life and I expected long days and backbreaking labor to be part of that. Instead, I’m getting a disappointingly laid-back vacation with lots of free entertainment. I’m trying to build character, damnit!

Keep in mind that I come from a long line of German Lutherans (100%... both sides of the fam) and we’re ingrained with a strong protestant work ethic. You’re not happy? Just work harder. You are happy? Great, work harder. We don’t talk about our problems, we work until they go away.

I really tried to tell myself to just enjoy this place for what it was for the few weeks I’ll be here, but I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was wasting time when I could be somewhere else doing something more productive. Most of the work we did my first week involved cutting and gluing PVC pipes in a shaded wooden shack with a radio blasting, and I swear that the other volunteers managed to stretch out one day’s worth of work over most of the week. We had to work together and it almost drove me crazy to wait impatiently for the next cut while they found every excuse to slack off. Make a cut, get a drink, eat some food, talk about movies, chase a lizard, complain about the heat, have a pipe-throwing contest, make another cut, etc.

That was week one. Week two, everything changed.

I have a feeling Danny noticed the other volunteers weren’t doing much other than playing video games, eating his food and drinking all his beer. Whatever the reason, he surprised us all Monday morning by handing everyone a shovel and assigning us to dig holes to uncover irrigation pipes. When Danny explained the task, I could feel the awkward silence as the others realized what we were expected to do.

I got to work solo, and I can’t remember the last time I dug such a big hole. Maybe I never did. The ground was hard and it was tough work. The heat was in the high 90’s and bugs were biting. I’m not a sweaty guy—I frequently ran a four mile loop in Oregon under a hot sun with nothing more than a misty brow—but my shirt got properly soaked from that digging. My arms and legs were sore and my back felt like it was about to snap, and that was only by lunchtime. I had to keep digging another hour before I found the pipe, and then dig the rest of the day to make enough space to tap into it. Not only that, but our workday went on quite a bit longer before Danny told us to come in. Then we had to do the same thing the next day. It reminded me of that movie about holes where all the kids dig holes all day and there were holes everywhere and they couldn’t go to bed until they were done digging their holes. What was that called?

After the second day, I woke up in a lot of pain. My arms and legs felt like noodles and it hurt to put on my shoes. My stiff muscles resisted every time I moved, even if I turned my neck. It was a good kind of hurt, and it felt great! For the first time since I arrived here, I felt like I put in a good day’s worth of work and could see the fruits of my labor in the big cavity in the ground. I was so proud of my hole. You can bet I was ecstatic when I finally found that pipe.

If you’ve never spent a whole afternoon digging a hole, then I strongly recommend it. You’re stuck there alone with your thoughts—no distractions—and you have some physical exertion to help purge anything unpleasant out of your mind. You also start seeing the faces of people you hate in the hard ground and get a lot of satisfaction ripping them apart with a shovel (that’s also a great way to get a burst of energy when you start feeling tired). In the end, you feel very centered and clear-headed.

We spent the rest of the week digging more ditches, then went on to pull weeds out of the grape fields. That was also tough, but even more rewarding since I was finally getting my hands in the dirt. I really started enjoying this place this week, although my fellow volunteers bring me down a bit. They now complain constantly about how rough life here has suddenly become… and they still find ways to slack off most of the day. Sorry to brag, but my hole was way more impressive than the one the two Brits dug together.

Dad always told me I’d end up digging ditches if I got a degree in film and philosophy. Guess he was right, but I’m sure he never imagined how much I'd enjoy it.

“The pile is the enemy of the hole.”
–Bart Simpson