From the North 40: Peasantry without drudgery

I was born to be a peasant.

Well, OK, not one of those indentured, do whatever the boss-man tells me to do kind of serfs. I have it on good authority from just about every one of my family members and my husband, who shall remain nameless, that I don’t follow orders very well. But there was a class of landowning peasants with whom I would have fit in nicely.

I come fully equipped by Mother Nature with large peasantish hands, feet and muscles, along with the broad shoulders and swarthy, heavy-boned build prized among the early working class, but most importantly, I have the mindset of a peasant.

Use everything until it’s used up. If it can’t be used up then reuse or repurpose it. Don’t buy new, unless it’s a crucial tool that can’t be found in adequate condition used. And whatever you do, don’t waste money — we don’t live in the mansion on the local estate. I’ve heard they buy flower cuttings to put in vases there.

That’s the thing about my peasantly ways, I have no sense of aesthetics. Flowers are beautiful, that’s all they need to be and I appreciate that people appreciate them for that reason alone. I appreciate your appreciation of them, if that’s how you roll … but a plant, still intact in dirt, lasts longer. And if it’s a perennial, well, c’mon, nothing says I love you over and over again like a plant that’s there year after year.

But if you really want to score points, buy me tools, materials, laborers, even.

I imagine that if I ever had to be in the hospital for something serious, or a long stay, my room would be filled with things like plant bulbs, dirt wrapped root balls of flowering shrubs, imitation flowers crafted out of artfully rolled work gloves stuck on stems made of drill bits displayed in a vase made from stacked rolls of duct tape.

A delivery person would show up with a five-gallon bucket filled with an assortment of screws and nails, and saying “I have a delivery for—” and the receptionist would cut in saying, “Let me guess, Pam. Two doors down on the left, just follow the dirt tracks. She’s had a steady parade of those ‘gifts’ arriving, and I swear every last friend has come in straight out of a barn or a shop, and each has brought a ‘therapy’ animal. I told that one woman that I have never heard of a therapy draft horse before. Do you know how much of a mess a draft horse can make?”

I come from good peasant stock. My mom is thrilled this Mother's Day to have gotten an electric edge trimmer. She plans on spending her special day tidying her yard. Sweat and dirt will be involved.

As for me, I got an early birthday present in the form of an electrician-for-a-day. (Normally, I prefer owning rather than renting, but I've heard that actually owning electricians is rather pricey and marginally illegal, but since I have no need for one year-round, I'm OK with renting one for a day or two. It's the more practical route.)

Now I get to start in on some good old peasanty labor on our new domicile — and maybe it's wrong, but I’m totally excited about that.

Don't tell my husband, but I think I overheard that I'm also getting a session with a masseuse for my birthday. It sounds like a waste of money on a luxury, I know, but since I'll be celebrating my milestone 50th birthday, it's actually a practical investment in my health to get me back to work sooner. The old gray mare et cetera, et cetera.

Still, electricity and a massage? Being a peasant isn't all bad.

(I have heated water that comes from faucets in my house, too. We're just living large at [email protected].)