Farmboy Guilt...

Some of you may have actual experience with this, but even if it's not Farmboy Guilt, everyone has something that tweaks their guilt strings every now and then.

For me, it's all about the changes over the past few years. I packed up in 2005 and headed for the big city, glad to be having a change in life and scenery. I've lived in the same small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere my whole life, and there's no way to break away unless you simply leave. And so I did.

Not that I didn't miss being around my family, and my pets, and acres upon acres of free space. But I certainly didn't miss the insanity that is farming, and everything uncivilized and uncultured about it. I'd done enough of that in my formative years to last me a lifetime. Don't get me wrong, I think everyone should be exposed to some part of this side of life. It's a great way to keep humble and make sure your head doesn't get too big. But at the same time, I can imagine how stifling it must be for so many people (my father included).

So when I moved to Toronto, I was overjoyed by the freedom from farming. Because, quite honestly, I don't like pounding posts for fences, or stacking square bales, or driving a tractor up and down, up and down for hours on end. It's boring, unstimulating, and psychologically unsatisfying. No more would I have to suffer the horrors of agriculture, now that I had started life in the city. I had friends who actually wanted to visit art galleries and museums and listen to jazz music and embrace culture.

When I visited home, I would fall back into some sense of farmiliarity. I would help my father on Saturday afternoons, or lend a hand with my Uncle. After getting back to the city, I would joke about how strange my life was; one minute shoveling shit, knee deep in the stuff...the next shopping on Bloor Street in Yorkville, in some semblence of style. Truly this could be deemed a magical time, getting just a dash of the farmiliar while at the same time spreading my urban wings.

This summer I had no intention of doing any agricultural work. None. I'd had my fill, and I wanted to get a real job, and actually be challenged, as opposed to simply picking up the pitchfork and doing the same old routine. I'd had enough of the stupidity of my Uncle and cousins and their backwards outlook on life.

One night a few weeks ago, before my parents left on vacation, I went out in the evening with my dad to give him a quick hand. The sun was setting and the sky was a firey orange, casting long shadows from the towering trees. Birds sang softly, and the wind played with the corn stalks, rustling them quietly in the twilight. As we worked, I gazed longlingly down the rows of corn, watching the stalks shiver in the now cool night air. The stars winked into view, and the last rays of sun disappeared in the western sky. And I felt guilty.

There I was, actually missing farming. For those few minutes, I was enamored with the beauty of nature, and the overwhelming urge to jump on a tractor and start working invaded my brain. I felt guilty for begrudgingly agreeing to help my father, instead of doing my duty as a good son and offering to help before being asked. I felt guilty for turning my back on my past, my roots, and the dirt under my feet.

The next day, I still couldn't believe how I felt once I was actually in the field again. The realization that I really did want to be out there, if only for a little bit to fill some void in my soul, stoned me. But in the hard sunlight of that morning, I understood I had been swept up by my romantic mind and carried away by the few moments of beauty I had enjoyed. After all, this was peaceful natural bliss I had experienced, not anything like a typical day of work. There was no mechanical failures, no Uncle or cousins to drive me crazy, no lack of stimulation or repetitive motions to dull my brain...this was not farming. This was my romantic ideal of farming, something that does not exsist.

Yet here I am, working again for my Uncle, doing the same jobs I used to do, and being bored to tears. Admitedly the first few hours were fun, but as I got readjusted to the bounce of my seat and the grind of the gears, as well as the sun beaming down on me all day, I remembered all too vividly why I don't like farming. So what made me even think of agreeing to doing it just one more time? I'll chalk it up to Farmboy Guilt.

Will I ever be rid of this? Once I move away completely, start life away from my homestead and not return to work, will I be free of the obligation? Or will it morph into something even worse than it is now, a knawing in the back of my mind, as I work on the 32nd floor of an office building, or jet across the Atlantic on a business trip, that I have left my past behind. Will the Farmboy Guilt follow me to the grave?

I guess we all fell a little guilty about leaving our pasts behind. Packing up for the last time, saying goodbye to the house you lived in, and permanantly moving away. After all, this is what you want, to have the life you want. If you make the break really clean, I guess the guilt is minimized, since you're not constantly being reminded what's happening back there. But maybe at some point, when you see a scene that lets your imagination take you back to a moment in your past, most likely fabricated from snippets of truth that combine to make one really rosey memory, you'll have that quiet whisper in the back of your mind...and feel a twinge of guilt.