I’ve not blogged this weekend really, because, having broken the joint between the tractor and the trincia twice in a row, this weekend was spend doing work more to my station in life as far as farming is concerned:
Swinging a machete at brambles and various weeds and shoots at the base of my olive trees for 7 hours in a row while my good friend who is born to tractors the way I was born to guns, spent the same time making my almost jungle into a pristine field.
The man worked without a shirt or suntan lotion the whole time and the exhaust from the tractor had covered him in a fine layer of soot by the end of the day. Walking back to the house for some fish lunch/dinner my daughter had actually cooked, I said:
“Well, I was doing most of the slave-work, but looks like you’re the black one today.”
His reply: “What, this? No, this is suntan lotion.”
He’s a little guy but he’s tough, and even though we only met some three years ago, I knew right away the kind of guy he is. Very polite but will not hesitate to speak his mind, so after the first few times we met up with him and his wife and son and he started helping me here and there when he asked me something a few weeks after we met I told him: “Look. There is no point in all the politeness with me. I’m kind of a savage, so let’s just pretend we’ve known each other for 30 years and we can dispense with the formalities.”
He’s spent about 30 hours in the last three weekends helping me out, not to mention finding the tractor with attachments in the first place. He’d spent about a month or so visiting people over 100km away to see their tractors (in the rain in the final instance) because he knew I am about as ignorant as a goat about Tractors.
When I got the tractor and saw what I had, I realised it was literally worth twice what I paid for it, so I told him it wasn’t my tractor. It was ours. I put in cash, he put in the sweat and knowledge.
If I manage to make this farm economically viable, I plan to share whatever profits we can make with him.
And though it will be a much simpler task than what he’s been doing tractor-wise, when he eventually gets his rifle, I plan to take him to the range and help him with what I know.
Truly the friendships between men that are still men is a unique thing. And may a curse lie on all those freaks that try and make this kind of friendship as if it were in some way related to their own degenerate faggotry. Polluting everything from the Illiad to Ancient Rome with their revisionist fake news.
I commented to a friend that while I am just about useless as a farmer, because I come from hunters, soldiers, fighters, crusaders (literally), and warriors, I have always noticed that farmers and warriors, though being different, always have a deep respect for each other.
He commented that:
“Because reality has been a real bitch to both of them.”
And I said:
“Yet neither type resents it.”
And it’s true. I think we get on because you absolutely cannot be a farmer or a fighter or a hunter without accepting reality.
And the ways are kind of similar if applied differently.
Both need to be patient. The farmer to plan and do his work according to the weather and proper ways of nature. The hunter to track and stalk or wait for his prey, regardless of the weather.
When action is required it has to be decisive and swift but not emotional or impulsive.
A farmer and a warrior both must love and take care of their tools, yet not be so attached to them either, as ultimately they are a means to an end.
In all things, farming and warring with other men force you to deal with reality and nature, because, like food and water, like the weather, violence among men has always existed, and as long as we are on this Earth, always will.
It’s funny how both his name and mine are quite literally dedicated to God and His Love for us humans. He’s named after one of the few cool Popes and his surname literally means From God’s Place.
I’m named after Mary’s husband and my surname is from the Greek for Friend or Lover, as is my family motto on our shield: Love Conquers All.
God truly has a subtle and refined sense of humour. And life is good.
Farmwork, Farmers, and Warriors
I’ve not blogged this weekend really, because, having broken the joint between the tractor and the trincia twice in a row, this weekend was spend doing work more to my station in life as far as farming is concerned:
Swinging a machete at brambles and various weeds and shoots at the base of my olive trees for 7 hours in a row while my good friend who is born to tractors the way I was born to guns, spent the same time making my almost jungle into a pristine field.
The man worked without a shirt or suntan lotion the whole time and the exhaust from the tractor had covered him in a fine layer of soot by the end of the day. Walking back to the house for some fish lunch/dinner my daughter had actually cooked, I said:
“Well, I was doing most of the slave-work, but looks like you’re the black one today.”
His reply: “What, this? No, this is suntan lotion.”
He’s a little guy but he’s tough, and even though we only met some three years ago, I knew right away the kind of guy he is. Very polite but will not hesitate to speak his mind, so after the first few times we met up with him and his wife and son and he started helping me here and there when he asked me something a few weeks after we met I told him: “Look. There is no point in all the politeness with me. I’m kind of a savage, so let’s just pretend we’ve known each other for 30 years and we can dispense with the formalities.”
He’s spent about 30 hours in the last three weekends helping me out, not to mention finding the tractor with attachments in the first place. He’d spent about a month or so visiting people over 100km away to see their tractors (in the rain in the final instance) because he knew I am about as ignorant as a goat about Tractors.
When I got the tractor and saw what I had, I realised it was literally worth twice what I paid for it, so I told him it wasn’t my tractor. It was ours. I put in cash, he put in the sweat and knowledge.
If I manage to make this farm economically viable, I plan to share whatever profits we can make with him.
And though it will be a much simpler task than what he’s been doing tractor-wise, when he eventually gets his rifle, I plan to take him to the range and help him with what I know.
Truly the friendships between men that are still men is a unique thing. And may a curse lie on all those freaks that try and make this kind of friendship as if it were in some way related to their own degenerate faggotry. Polluting everything from the Illiad to Ancient Rome with their revisionist fake news.
I commented to a friend that while I am just about useless as a farmer, because I come from hunters, soldiers, fighters, crusaders (literally), and warriors, I have always noticed that farmers and warriors, though being different, always have a deep respect for each other.
He commented that:
“Because reality has been a real bitch to both of them.”
And I said:
“Yet neither type resents it.”
And it’s true. I think we get on because you absolutely cannot be a farmer or a fighter or a hunter without accepting reality.
And the ways are kind of similar if applied differently.
Both need to be patient. The farmer to plan and do his work according to the weather and proper ways of nature. The hunter to track and stalk or wait for his prey, regardless of the weather.
When action is required it has to be decisive and swift but not emotional or impulsive.
A farmer and a warrior both must love and take care of their tools, yet not be so attached to them either, as ultimately they are a means to an end.
In all things, farming and warring with other men force you to deal with reality and nature, because, like food and water, like the weather, violence among men has always existed, and as long as we are on this Earth, always will.
It’s funny how both his name and mine are quite literally dedicated to God and His Love for us humans. He’s named after one of the few cool Popes and his surname literally means From God’s Place.
I’m named after Mary’s husband and my surname is from the Greek for Friend or Lover, as is my family motto on our shield: Love Conquers All.
God truly has a subtle and refined sense of humour. And life is good.
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