Farmers' Knowledge

I screened a Frontline documentary this morning that I intend to show to my composition class. The documentary was an expose' on the internet culture, called "Growing Up Online." I've had internet connection since I was in early middle school; I can still remember waiting for hours to the sound of the screeching modem, praying that AOL would hook me up with the rest of the world before the overcrowding would boot me off. I guess I've grown up with the internet. It has given me a Matrix-like sense of being an instant expert at anything and everything. I have confidence to take on new tasks because, even if I don't know the proper protocol, I know that Google does. And for the most part, Google is an extremely willing teacher. But I'm learning that internet knowledge is actually far behind that of your average, hard working farmer. And I'm not just talking about spiritual knowledge, though such a topic would be worthy of a blog all its own. Farmers tend to know things that are far too bizarre for any of us internet junkies to even think about searching - there are more things, I suppose, in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our cyber philosophy.

When we bought our gelding, Junior, he was an all-pasture-all-the-time horse. As a result, he came to us with a severe case of rain rot over his back and hind quarters. Rain rot is a nasty bacteria that latches onto a horse's skin if he's been out in the rain for too long. In extreme cases like Juniors', it will form a hard, wart-like shell over the infected area. Though the rot doesn't hurt or itch the poor guy, a quick Google search told me that it could lead to nastier infections that would require a vet's attention. We certainly didn't want this for our gelding, so I searched, "How do I get rid of rain rot on a horse?" The search turned up pages upon pages of warnings and advertisements, all of which seemed to insist that my animal cruelty will be a mark against my soul if I did not buy any one of the expensive, anti-bacterial, anti-microbial horse shampoos that the websites were promoting.

It just so happened that our dog, led by Spirit, escaped Emotive Acres one day to visit with our neighbors, who were out for some riding lessons. During our retrieval of Sampson, John and I struck up a conversation, and managed to share Junior's plight with our newfound friends. "Listerine!" our neighbor cheered, throwing his arms up so that we could read The Church Has Left the Building painted boldly across his chest. "Listerine will make the rain rot go away just like that!" Listerine? Such a remedy was nowhere on the internet. Nowhere connected to my search terms, anyway. I asked his wife where she'd heard of such a remedy, and she shrugged. "Don't know where I heard it," she said. "I just took out a bottle, poured it on my horse one day, and the rot just came right out."

Some years ago, while leaning over my husband's motorcycle to fix my make up in his rear view, I got too close to his pipes and seared a grapefruit-sized third degree burn onto the outside of my shin. The pain was excruciating - it just wouldn't quit. As we stopped for a beer at a secluded bar, an older lady approached me and winced at my boo boo. She was already three sheets to the wind; I think my blood alcohol level was raised when she exhaled on me to shout, "Mustard!" Sure enough, we lathered my wound in mustard and the pain went away instantly.

This kind of advice can only be given human to human; it has no place on the web. Certainly, when I search "mustard" with "burns" or "Listerine" with "rain rot," I stumble upon thousands of netgoers who have discovered the same gems. Yet I'm afraid my creativity is limited - I would no sooner think to type "Listerine" and "rain rot," than I would to search "Coca-cola" and "car engines." An internet search is only as good as the imagination of the searcher. Google has no excitement in its advice; it exhibits no eagerness to share useful information, or to guarantee that the information is both accessible and intriguing. A farmer, on the other hand, goes beyond the simple sharing of information, and adds thrill of discovery to his advice. A farmer will give no advice unless he's tried it out on his own land, animals or body first. In sharing his discovery, therefore, he is able to relive the excitement of success that he'd experienced when he first came upon the solution.

If the intellectual prowess of the internet is derived from the combined intellectual prowess of all its contributors, then certainly the breadth of knowledge it provides surpasses that of any individual. But breadth is not always best. A farmer's knowledge is a condensation of family teachings and first-hand experimentation. God has provided all that we need, a farmer knows this. Because small farmers generally operate on limited funds, they have a unique appreciation for the things they already have. Putting together the right patterns, discovering the simple household items or natural elements that can remedy a given problem, is like uncovering another of God's mysteries. It's a childish game; It's why farmers are never bored.

The very day of our neighborly conversation, John and I rushed out to pick up a bottle of Listerine. We poured the bottle over Junior's rot and, sure enough, it began to flake right off with the aid of a mane comb. He still has more treatments to go, but he is doing much better and seems to be much happier. Thanks to the unique qualities of farmers' knowledge, our bank account is safe, our horse is healthier, and our barn now wafts with the delightful scent of vanilla mint.