Okay, so 'fiction' maybe isn't exactly the right word to describe this story. So far, it's more or less all completely true.
I'm a farm girl, and this is pretty much what I have to say about it.
Let me know what you think.
If you ask me where I live, I have to stop and sigh. It takes effort to explain where you live, when you live in the middle of nowhere. I don't have a street address to give you. I don't even live on a street. It's a gravel road, which continues as dirt road on either side.
I suppose our farm isn't that far off the highway. It really isn't that confusing to get to. I have no gift for directions, though. The only reason I can find it is because I live there.
If you ask me whether I do chores on the farm, I still don't really know what to say. Yes, I do help my father on the farm when he asks. Do I enjoy it? Not really, no.
I really respect my dad. He gets his rush from a long day of hard work. There is nothing he likes more than being in control, working the land, getting things done. He lives for the long summer days on tractors and trucks. The long winters here nearly drive him crazy.
I, however, did not inherit his love of work. Driving tractor is fun for the first five minutes. But soon the seat is itchy, and the cab is unbearably hot. The field stretches endlessly before me, reminding me that this will take hours. Long, hot, monotonous hours. The seat bounces up and down with the rough texture of the field. The clutch jerks no matter how steady my foot is. I'm sure I can walk faster anyway.
The noise gets to me. The roar of the engine is constant, with occasional varying in tone when I push the throttle lever. Above the rumble, however, is the silence. There is no music, because the radio is broken and I don't want to lose or break my mp3 player.
I'm faced with complete and utter boredom, and thoughts - ones that I usually supress by doing things - surface.
I think about all sorts of things. My goals, dreams, nightmares. How lucky I am to have my life and how sweaty my jeans are getting between my thighs and the tweed seat cover. I think that's my problem. I think too much about everything. I get that from my dad. I think spending hours on tractors did this to him - threw him just a little bit over the edge of normal.
I think about how I'm in my own little world, completely disconnected, with only my thoughts and mosquitoes for company. I begin to think that my father has forgotten me and I will be stuck, forever driving the length of this field. Shouldn't he have brought me some lunch by now?
I think about how I'm in my own little world, completely disconnected, with only my thoughts and mosquitoes for company.
I begin to think that my father has forgotten me and I will be stuck, forever driving the length of this field. Shouldn't he have brought me some lunch by now?
Once in a while I'll sing. I can belt it in the cab, quite assured that no one will ever hear it. I can make up my own songs, or try screeching notes that I wouldn't consider in any other context. My voice begins to sound hoarse and desparate. I can hear the strain despite the background thunder that will still be vibrating in my bones long after I leave this shuddering mechanical beast.
Sometimes, I wish that I liked helping my dad on the farm. Perhaps then he would be proud of me. But the more enthusiastic I get, the more work he makes me do. Not much incentive.
Mostly, I think about how bored and tired I am, how I wish I could read a novel while I sit there and wiggle the steering wheel. About how I'm going to get a real job and never agree to drive tractor again.