Rain, sun, wind, hail - and, of course, those crazy deer

On many occasions I have said I chose, for nearly half a century, to work for newspapers for one simple reason: a milk cow named Lulu.

Those of you who grew up on farms know exactly what I'm talking about. For some of you city folk who don't know the difference between a boar and heifer, farm life tends to command most of your time, attention and energy.

When I look at young parents today and see them hauling their children to soccer games, baseball games, basketball games, football games, martial arts and goodness knows how many other after-school activities, I think about Lulu -- and endless chores.

On the farm where I grew up over yonder in the Ozarks, Lulu came first. She had to be milked in the morning and again at night. Every day. Of my life.

So when it came time to pick a college major, I tested every area of interest: Does it involve a milk cow? That's how I became and English major who wanted to be a teacher.

Interestingly, when I called The Kansas City Star for an interview [on Memorial Day, 1965], I had no idea I would wind up eating a sandwich out of a brown bag with John Colt, who turned out to be the executive editor of The Star. Colt finally gave me a summer job as an intern with no guarantees for the fall. After we shook hands, Colt said, "I don't know why anyone wants to work for a daily newspaper. Every day you have to put out another paper. It's just like having a milk cow."

Obviously, Mr. Colt and I had something in common.

I have thought about all of this in recent weeks for a reason. That's because, in my retirement, I am slowing becoming a farmer again. I don't have a milk cow -- yet -- but I have new grass seed that has to be watered every day.

I have a small raised-bed garden that, so far, has been spared by the marauding deer in our neighborhood. Maybe those anti-deer devices filled with dried blood [that's what it says on the label] really work.

My petite garden has tomatoes, peppers, green onions, radishes, lettuce, zinnias and nasturtiums. So far, so good.

Maybe you also remember, if you grew up on a farm, almost everything we ate came from our gardens or barns.

The garden alongside our farmhouse was over an acre and filled with long rows of potatoes and tomatoes and pole beans and cucumbers and peppers and onions and zucchini and okra and sweet corn and on and on.

In addition, we had beds of perennials that pretty much took care of themselves: asparagus, dill, rhubarb, gooseberries.

Behind the house was the orchard with apples and peaches and pears.

From the barn came ham and bacon and hamburger and roasts.

I learned early on not to name any of the newborn farm animals. It just didn't seem right to look at a pan-fried burger and know it came from Little Alfie.

Now that I have a garden and pasture to tend and mow, not to mention 20 hanging pots, urns and baskets to water and fertilize plus beds of poppies, roses, lilies, larkspur [which we don't remember planting] and iris, I have a renewed appreciation for what it means to be a farmer.

Farmers depend entirely on Providence. Some try to beat the odds with irrigation systems. Having a way to make it rain when there are no clouds doesn't do any good if fields are too wet to plant. Or, once your crop is up, a mighty hailstorm rips everything to shreds.

Whenever I go to a grocery store I am amazed at the abundance we enjoy when it comes to good things to eat. The trend these days, of course, is toward processed foods, anything you can open and eat with little or no preparation.

I wonder how many of the shoppers I saw at the store on Wednesday would know what to do with a mess of greens or how to wilt lettuce [my mouth is watering] or turn a bushel of tomatoes into spaghetti sauce.

Meanwhile, I continue to write this weekly column believing I am somehow staving off the necessity to acquire a milk cow.

Having a milk cow just isn't worth it. Not even for the fresh, sweet butter I could churn.

Thank God for dairies.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.