Years
ago, a chronic power outage in the pavilion and a hundred cups of coffee
triggered a bright idea. If I had a golf cart, my staff and I could drive the hot
pot to the kitchen to brew.
Instead, I trudged uphill, the shortest
distance between two points, with the huge percolator. Never again, I vowed, as
sixty farm girls huddled together on a cold September morning, yawning for
caffeine, waiting for my Farm Girl Revival to begin.
The following spring, Andy, our late handyman,
rewired the inadequate electrical lines. Afterward, we found a used golf cart. I
paid more for that little sprite of a vehicle than my husband did for our first
car.
Oh, what a happy day when Andy and his
wife, Kathy, pulled into our driveway with my lifesaver. He rolled my $2,600
expense off the flatbed and up to the front porch where I stood. He looked
sheepish.
“Sorry we’re late. We took it for a test
drive on the back forty.”
Kathy took the wheel. “It’s fun to drive.
We didn’t want to let it go. Get in. I’ll take you for a spin.”
Andy flipped up the cart’s back bed and
took a seat.
I say unequivocally, many farm burdens
lifted that day. I learned to spare my body and use my "old fart cart" for transport upon
the property’s rolling vistas. Andy made a frame for the bed to secure my
garden tools, potted plants, and containers of lavender scones, brownies, and
ice cream—and bags and boxes of lavender products for the gift shop.
When the hens came along, my husband wheeled
their feed downhill to their house. After we closed the farm to the public, for some unknown reason, the name Betsy came to mind. Perhaps it was after she helped us transfer the freezer and refrigerator from the pavilion to the basement. No job for an old fart.
Truly, we couldn’t maintain this place if
it wasn’t for Betsy’s tough little spirit. Surprisingly, the highlight of our grandson’s visits is driving our golf cart.
“Why do you call it Betsy?”
he once asked.
It was last week when I piled bags of dirty,
torn, and stapled weed cloth onto Betsy’s bed and realized the answer to his
question. That cute little thing reminds
me of my grandmother-in-law, Betsy. She worked and played with her entire heart.
After eight years of strenuous labor, it
seems Betsy enjoys our part-time retirement. On occasion, I take her on farm inspections,
no burden to carry but me. She’s become a part of our family and memory, as did my husband’s 1975 Mustang, and our Valero station wagon as parents of three little girls.
Betsy’s big chores this spring and summer
are to deliver hundreds of dead lavender plants to the fire pit, and old weed
cloth to the road for trash pick up. Come August and September, I’ll pack her up with vegetables from the garden.
Today, dear Reader, my workhorse
carried three packages of honeybees to their hives. For Betsy and me, it’s pure recreation to welcome bees and
queens to their new home.
I understand why Andy and Kathy didn't want to let Betsy go. She's got personality. And a work ethic that won't quit.
