Whenever I tell anyone that I grew up on a farm,
I get a certain reaction,
As if, of all the lies I could tell, that’s the one I’d pick.
You believed me when I told you I’d met the original Hamburglar,
but not that I grew up on a farm?
[Incidentally, I did meet A Hamburglar, but I’m pretty sure it was a sweaty teenager with limited job prospects.]
I don’t really think these people think I’m a liar.
Perhaps they thought farms are like Conestoga wagons and cave paintings,
quaint reflections of simpler bye-gone days.
Maybe they thought their corn chips were grown in petri dishes in a subterranean factory.
[Bad example. Maybe corn chips are manufactured that way, but I’m pretty sure somewhere there is a hose through which good old Hoosier-grown corn is fed in; maybe it’s just defective kernels that weren’t salable to the makers of feed for hulking Angus cattle, but still…]
Anyhow, I suspect they are just excited to come across someone so rare — if in a workaday way.
It’s nothing like meeting Neil Armstrong or Beyoncé,
but rather like meeting the guy who did Neil Armstrong’s tire alignment or who cleans Beyoncé’s fish tanks.
A mundane superstar.
A mythical child of the corn.