A Farmer, in Search of a Farm of His Own: An Incel's Tale
Tom Bill always had one dream. But no land would have him.
Once upon a time there was a young boy named Tom Bill. Tom Bill was nearly a man. And he had a dream. Only one dream, and it was dear to him. Tom Bill would be a farmer. You see, his father was a farmer. And his father before him was also a farmer.
Farming, as they say, was in his blood.
Tom Bill knew he’d be a good farmer. His father had taught him well. And Tom Bill listened always. He was ready. He was very strong. From his father, he had inherited a pair of strong and sturdy horses. And his handsome plow was brand new, the plowshare shiny and perfect, the biggest plow around and he had made it himself.
He was more than ready. He had spent several years planning, dreaming about getting his start as a farmer. He had stored up huge bags of seed, anxious to sew. He saw pleasant patches of ground from time to time, which were obviously available and very inviting. But No! Tom Bill admonished himself. I will not waste my seed. When I find my very own farm, then I shall plant my seed and see what good things shall come of it.
One day, while Tom Bill was taking his morning walk, he happened upon Sunny Grove. What a lovely place. There was a happy, gurgling brook, a very inviting hilltop, and lush, fertile soil. He became convinced, this was the perfect spot for him to realize his dream. Here, he vowed, I shall become a farmer for true!
He explored carefully until he found the perfect spot. Then he hitched up his team, set his jaw and planted his gleaming plowshare into the rich, lush soil. At last! At last!
The morning’s work was hard, but Tom Bill was happy. He took his lunch and looked all around. He was the happiest young man in the world!
But when he returned to work, Sunny Grove said, “No!”
“No?” he asked, stunned.
“No. You may not plant your seed here,” said Sunny Grove.
“But… but… I’ve already started plowing,” he said, pointing to his now soiled plowshare.
“I don’t care,” said Sunny Grove. “I do not wish to be farmed.”
“Do not wish to be farmed?” he responded. “But, you are perfect. You are the ideal farmland. And I,” he boasted, defending his rejected honor, “am the best farmer around You’ve already let me turn your soil”
“That was just a bit of fun,” replied Sunny Grove. “I enjoy having my soil turned from time to time. Thank you for the amusement. Now, run along.”
“How can a field such as yourself not wish to be farmed?” Tom Bill demanded, astonished.
“I wish to be a tropical island in the Pacific Ocean,” said Sunny Grove.
“But that is impossible,” said he. “The Pacific is thousands of miles from here, a continent away.”
“Trouble me not with your silly logic,” dismissed Sunny Grove. “If you truly loved me, you would honor my dreams and wish me well.”
Tom Bill sighed, wiped the sweat and soil from his hands and wished Sunny Grove farewell. He wandered down the trail sadly, but soon he cheered up. He was the greatest farmer with a bright future ahead!
A few days later, Tom Bill found himself in Ferny Gulch. Ferny Gulch was perhaps not as lovely and picturesque as Sunny Grove – can any field compare to one’s first? -- but the soil was even more lush, more rich, yet the drainage was excellent. It wold be hard work, he knew, but he was young and strong and up to the task.
“Here I shall plant my seed,” said he, and set to work clearing the thick ferny foliage. After several days, he had cleared a couple of acres, enough for a farm and humble home. He set about digging a well when suddenly:
“No,” said Ferny Gulch. “I do not consent.”
“Wha- wha- what?” asked Tom Bill, shocked at this latest refusal. You can’t… ” he gestured around him at the many days’ work he had accomplished, “you can’t withdraw consent now!”
“Yes I can,” said Ferny Gulch, defiantly, “My dirt, my choice!”
“But I’ve worked so hard,” said Tom Bill, pleading and showing his blistered and bleeding hands. “You didn’t object when I was clearing away all those vines.”
“I was enjoying myself,” said Ferny Gulch, coldly. “I like to let farmers have at me from time to time, but I’ve no wish to become a farm. I… I want… I want to be, a glamorous movie star!”
“A movie star?”
“Yes, yes! A famous star. I will influence a generation! My every whim, every mood, every gesture will be admired by all! Then and only then shall I be truly truly happy!” said Ferny Gulch rapturously.
“But nobody makes movies about tracts of land,” said Tom Bill. “You’re being unrealistic. You will be a wonderful farm, but you would make a dreadful movie star.”
“Trouble me no further, foolish foolish farm boy. You hayseed. You hick! You unsophisticated bumpkin,” said Ferny Gulch, “I enjoyed letting you roll my hay, but I have much bigger and brighter things ahead of me, and you wouldn’t fit in with my future friends.”
Tom Bill’s heart sank. He had been sure this was the one. The perfect farm. But it was not to be. He wiped his hands, packed his tools, loaded his things upon the horses’ backs and wandered off down the long, lonesome trail.
A few weeks passed and Tom Bill wandered into a nice, modest, humble place called Clover Valley. Not so picturesque as Sunny Grove, to be sure, nor as raw and musky as Ferny Gulch, but Clover Valley had a lot to recommend it. Lots of sunny south exposure, a happy little stream and a hill in back that shielded from the cold north wind.
Tom Bill took a few days to explore and decided, yes, here in Clover Valley shall I finally plant my seed and realize my dream to be a true farmer.
For many weeks he and his horses labored. He dug a well, built a barn, built a small house for himself and dug an outhouse near the hill out back. He hitched up and dipped his plowshare deep deep into the thick clover, and found thereunder the finest, sweetest, most fertile soil of all. Oh, joy! he thought as he sewed his seed and planted his crop in the lush and verdant soil. As the crop sprang up, he fenced the place and proudly hung up the little sign he had made:
“CLOVER VALLEY FARM”
Farming is hard work and it takes many weeks before harvest. To make ends meet, Tom Bill took a job at the sawmill beyond the next hill. Each morning he got up, took care of the animals, made sure everything was just right, then went off happily to work, whistling the whole way.
But no sooner had Tom Bill left each day, than here came Sunny Grove and Ferny Gulch, come to visit Clover Valley. It seemed Sunny and Ferny had become curious what Tom Bill was up to these days since they’d rejected his farming advances. And they had quickly befriended Clover.
Each morning, as Clover slowly and dutifully grew the young crop, Sunny and Ferny would recount news and gossip of the Outside World. There was so much exciting news. Relationships! Betrayals! Surprise connections! Glamour, scandal and fortune! And always, exciting news of their progress at making their dreams come true.
Sunny was now growing several palm trees, and sported a chic patch of perfect white sand. Ferny was now working on a debut dance video and had started an Instagram story, and already had six followers! It was all so elegant, so breathtaking.
“I can’t believe Tommy has you squatting out here all day,” said Ferny. “You must, like, love him or something, to put up with all this.”
“Well, sure,” said Clover Valley. “Tom Bill takes good care of me.”
“I’ll bet” snorted Sunny. “You have no idea what ‘good care’ is, if you know what I mean. You ain’t played the field yet!”
Clover looked confused, and Sunny and Ferny laughed openly. “On second thought, you better stick with ol’ Tommy,” said Ferny. “Best to stay in your league.” They both chortled, then cackled, pointing at Clover. Clover Valley felt utterly humiliated.
“I have dreams too, you know!” shouted Clover suddenly.
“Do tell!” cried Sunny and Ferny.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to laugh at me.”
“Oh, we won’t laugh.,” they promised, “please tell.”
“I’ve always, you know, kind of dreamed…”
“Yes?”
“Dreamed of…”
“Yes?!?!?!?”
“I’d kind of like to be a farmer myself, you know, like, find a perfect place somewhere and have my own farm?”
Sunny Grove and Ferny Gulch clapped their hands and shouted their approval. “Oh you must! You must! You must follow your heart! You must follow your dream!!!”
Clover Valley wasn’t sure. “But I’m growing a crop now. And Tom Bill has worked so very hard to build what we have now.”
“What?” cried Sunny? “You let Old Fashion Tom make you abandon your dreams?”
Listen,” said Ferny, “You got to kick that hick to the curb.”
“Mmmm-HMMM,” agreed Sunny. “Kick that hick!”
And soon, one evening when Tom Bill came home from the sawmill and as he was watering the horses and locking up the chickens for the night, he saw that all his field had turned brown. The entire crop…
“Ruined!” he cried. “Ruined! Aaaahh! What has happened?”
“I decided to withdraw my consent,” said Clover Valley. “You can’t hold me back from my dreams any longer.”
“But… but… I am a farmer, and you are my field. So many people, everyone is counting on us,” he pleaded. “On US! The entire village is depending on OUR crop. It’s not just us. Without our produce, the village shall die out. Starve!”
“I don’t care,” said Clover Valley. “It’s not my problem. The only thing that matters to me, is me, my dreams, my happiness, my pleasure and my wishes.” Coldly, icily, Clover pointed down the trail. “Now go! I withdraw my consent. In fact, now that I think about it, I think you raped me.”
Tom Bill stood frozen in mortified shock.
“Yes, rape.” said Clover. “That’s what it was. Rape! Rape! Help! Help! RA-A-A-A-APE!”
Tom Bill frantically packed his things and hastily beat a path in the night with his tired horses, one step ahead of the angry villagers who came at Clover’s call.
“You go, girlfriend,” said Sunny Grove as Tom Bill vanished, never to be seen again.
For a time, Tom Bill thought of finding a new patch of land and trying again to live the life of a farmer, the only thing he had ever truly wanted. But he was getting old. His back was tired and his hands were cracked. His horses were worn out and it was a cold hard land. And one by one, they died
.
Clover made a few fumbling attempts to plow neighboring fields. It was fun for a while, and kind of exciting to break the rules so daringly but of course, Clover had no seed so no crop ever came of it.
There was nothing for the villagers to eat and the few who remained got older, gradually hungrier and they too died out, one by one, and the viliage became overgrown and vanished, forgotten.
One day some dark strangers wandered by. They roughly explored Clover Valley for any cast off or forgotten treasure. Clover Valley moaned and purred as they prodded here and there without overture of any kind, seemingly completely without regard for Clover’s consent or lack thereof.
But soon the excitement passed and the strangers moved on. Clover lay fallow, and where once had been clover now grew nettles and poison ivy.
Occasionally a strapping, freckled and fresh faced young farmer or two happened by.
“What about this place,” asked one?
The other looked around and spat. “Nah,” he dismissed. “I reckon we can do a dang sight better than this here ol’ sticker patch.”
Lance Peckerwood is the Founder and Senior Editor of Dies Irae, a Chronicle of the inevitable outpouring of the Wrath of Almighty God upon the earth, and items of general interest to Christian men.