Homespun Insights, No. 3

I can’t help but wonder how many of us guys would have become successful wheat farmers if it hadn’t been for our better halves propping us up and making us feel that we are not such bad eggs.


A lot of my best friends are sincere Christians. I happen to have a bad distaste for any evangelist that can’t stay out of trouble and takes advantage of the blockheads and the innocent ones. 


Always, if possible, have the fair sex as truck drivers. It will cause your best manners to show when she drives up for a load of wheat.


A hug should transmit a friendship that lasts forever, unless you are a hypocrite with sneaky intentions.


Many farmers figure spring hasn’t arrived until my shirt comes off, so I do serve some useful purpose. 


What's wrong with living with the thought that any day could be you last day? Would you then bark at your wife?


Some of us get by with so little health problems that we can find time to create our own psychosomatic illness. 


We Christmas children of the past are now playing the roles of parents, grandparents, or the childless ones. It’s how we found ourselves cast in life. 


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Some poetic formatting:

Before Sugar Entered My Life


During the summer months 
My bedroom partner was a combine,
Next to my cot, 
In an open machine shed. 
(The shed was located by a wheat field.) 

On sultry nights,
Sudden wind storms 
Would rattle the standing wheat. 
And the dampness 
Gave off a fresh vegetation aroma.

A few raindrops 
Would find their way through the cracks, 
Causing a restful, contented feeling, 
To pass over me. 

It gave me reason to believe 
That we could have a fair crop after all. 

                                                                 Walt Kik
(From "No Greater Tranquility for an Insomniac")


Enjoy Harvest

When the recent clouds
Moved in and
Got a bit of our 
Standing grain
All wet and chilly, 

It caused concern 
To replace the stress 
In the excitable, 
And woke up the meek 
To reality. 

Now both are 
Able to walk 
Arm in arm, sharing 
The same anxieties, 

'Til the last wheat heads 
Get threshed and 
Put away, where 
It's nice and dry.

-Walt Kik
(From "Usually Scantily Dressed")



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