Confession of a farmer’s wife

by Katie on March 23, 2011

That’s right, I have a confession to make. I placed my husband’s life thumb, maybe hand, in very grave danger recently.

You see, I misplaced my pocket knife on one of those hunting adventures in the mountains. Who knows, I may have left it at the bottom of this giant cliff, where I was certain my broken, mangled body would be lying right now.

But it’s a pocket knife, right? Who cares?

This girl.

Why? Because it’s her job to feed cattle every day (until two days ago when I was finally able to kick them out into the pasture).

And when you don’t have a knife for that job, you have to rub the strings of twine together until they break. Time consuming. Not fun.

So, eventually, after the disappearance of the pocket knife, I began taking one of the kitchen knives from the butcher block out with me. I mean, who needs a pocket knife when you have a steak knife? Problem solved.

Until the day I went out to feed, then hopped right into Brandon’s truck to change some irrigation water.

You see, I dropped that uh, steak knife into the pocket in his door.

The same door pocket, where, apparently, he keeps all his keys. Like to gates, the shop, etc. You know, places and things he needs to unlock. On a daily basis.

And, if you know anything about me, you know that while I have it together in the office, and manage every dime our business generates and spends, I sooooo do not have it together when it comes to life.

Life, as in, remembering to remove keys from vehicles before I lock doors, keeping my phone on my person, or at least in a location where I can actually find it later, gathering up all my belongings including said keys and phone, in addition to wallet and sunglasses upon exiting a building. Anyway, you get the idea.

And now I can add “removing sharp objects from places my husband is likely to stick his hand without looking” to that list.

Because that’s exactly what happened.

I took the truck, changed my water, and went on my merry way for the day. Brandon later took his truck and went on his way – it just wasn’t as merry.

He came in the house for lunch, wielding my hay twine cutter (i.e., steak knife).

“Any idea how this might have gotten into my truck, Dear?” he inquired. Only not really. It was such a rhetorical question. He knew.

Beginning to realize what likely transpired, I replied with a weak, “Oh, I have an idea…”

“Well, would you like to know how I found it?” Also rhetorical. He was going to tell me whether I wanted to know or not.

So I just cringed.

“I found it when I was digging around for my keys. And felt something really sharp. Like, a knife. I’m lucky I didn’t lose a finger. Or my whole hand. You tell me all the time how I better come home with all my limbs, and then you almost made me cut one off.”

And I couldn’t really argue. Because although it wasn’t intentional, it still had the same result. I’m just glad I didn’t have to title this “The day the farmer lost his finger.”

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