In other words, my life is pretty good these days, but here’s the thing: When I tell people I’m a farmer, most of them tilt their heads and look at me kind of funny. More often than not, they have no idea what to say next. If I tell people that my family owns a farm, however, they brighten and smile and start asking questions. Why the difference, I’m not exactly sure, but it’s happened a few times since I arrived in Florida. Sometimes after a show, people will come up to me and start a conversation, and once they realize that I’m a nobody in music, the subject eventually shifts to what I do for a living. Depending on whether I want the conversation to continue, I’ve learned to either say that I’m a farmer or that I own a farm.
Despite our success over the last few years, the stress of the farm can be wearying. Daily decisions often have longer-term consequences, and every choice is linked to another. Do I bring the tractor in for repairs, so I have more time to focus on customers, or do I repair it myself, to save the thousand dollars? Do I expand the offering of heirloom tomatoes, or specialize in just a few and find more outlets? Mother Nature, too, is capricious, and while you can make a decision that seems correct at the time, sometimes bad things happen anyway. Will the heaters function properly so the chickens will be warm enough in the rare times it snows? Will the hurricane pass us by, or will the wind and rain ruin the crops? Every day, I’m in charge of growing and raising healthy crops and chickens, and every day, something comes up that adds to the challenge. While things are constantly growing, other things are always decaying, and striving for that perfect balance sometimes feels like a nearly impossible task. I could work twenty-four hours a day and still never say to myself, That’s it. There’s nothing more to be done.
I mention all this only to explain why this three-week trip to Florida is the first real break I’ve had in seven years. Paige, my aunt, and the general manager insisted that I go. Before coming here, I’d never taken so much as a single week off, and I can count on one hand the number of weekends I forced myself to get away from it all. Thoughts of the farm intrude regularly; in the first week, I must have called my aunt ten times to check in on how things were going. She finally forbade me to call anymore. Between her and the general manager, they could handle it, she said, so in the last three days I haven’t called at all, even when the urge has felt almost overwhelming. Nor have I called Paige. She received a fairly substantial order right before I left, and I already knew she wouldn’t answer when in furious work mode, all of which means that, in addition to vacation, I’m alone with my thoughts for the first time in what seems like forever.
I’m pretty sure my girlfriend, Michelle, would have liked this relaxed and healthy, nonworking version of me. Or, rather, my ex-girlfriend. Michelle always complained that I focused on the needs of the farm more than my own life. I’d known her since high school—barely, since she was dating one of the football players and was two years older than me—but she’d always been friendly when we passed each other in the hallways, even though she was the prettiest girl in school. She vanished from my life for a few years before we ran into each other again, at a party after she graduated from college. She’d become a nurse and had taken a job at Vidant Medical Center, but she moved back in with her parents in the hopes of saving enough money for a down payment on a condominium in Greenville. That initial conversation led to a first date, then a second one, and for the two years we dated, I considered myself lucky. She was smart and responsible and had a good sense of humor, but she worked nights and I worked constantly, leaving us with little time to spend with each other. I want to believe that we could have worked past that, but I eventually realized that while I liked her, I didn’t love her. I’m pretty sure she felt the same about me, and once she finally bought her condo, seeing each other became all but impossible. There was no messy breakup, no anger or fighting or name-calling; rather, we both started texting or calling less, until it reached a point where we hadn’t so much as touched base in a couple of weeks. Even though we hadn’t formally ended things, both of us knew it was over. A few months later she met someone else, and about a year ago I saw on her Instagram page that she’d just gotten engaged. To make things easier, I stopped following her on social media, deleted her contact from my phone, and I haven’t heard from her since.
I’ve found myself thinking about her more than usual down here, perhaps because couples seem to be everywhere. They’re at my shows, they’re holding hands as they walk the beach, they’re sitting across from each other at dinner while gazing into each other’s eyes. There are families here, too, of course, but not as many as I thought there would be. I don’t know the Florida school schedule, but I figure the kids must still be in their classrooms.