Drew On A Farm.

I never speak in third person. Too many Drews.
My roommate from freshman year Drake was named Drew. Still is. Came out to visit the farm a couple of weeks ago. Then he wrote the following post for you:

Stupid MapQuest. I was fairly confidant that Drew’s farm was within 15 miles of my position. But that didn’t mean I could get there. Lost on the back roads of Ohio, I finally cry “Uncle” and call Drew’s cell phone. No answer. Punk. So I drive back to Ye Olde McDonalds to wait for his return call. An hour later and I am on the farm, meeting the herd. There’s the McCoy herd and there’s the animal counterparts. McCoys: Drew, Mom, little sis. Four-legged folk: Father Abraham, Fat Joe, Darwin, etc.
I am told that Fat Joe is not named for his considerable size. Which is fairly immense. My typical interaction with such eatable creatures takes place in the chilled aisles of the local Cub Foods. Up close, one of these hulking creatures could feed me for a month. When approached, Fat Joe has a tendency to lean back. Hardy-har-har. Father Abraham managed to sire well after his supposed castration. The names provide levity to an already hilarious herding evening. Herding, as demonstrated by Drew, is a very loosely applied term. With an armful of hay, Drew enticed the herd to follow him across the pasture, over the creek (through the woods), and into the barn. Not exactly the smartest of hulking creatures. Darwin, the trusty herding dog, did far less herding than distracting, and Fat Joe decided to follow him to the right instead of trailing that tasty hay.
Eventually, Drew and I (mostly Drew) managed to get the cows to the edge of the creek. At which point there was the small matter of crossing the creek. Drew, with his long legs and nimble leaps, cleared that strip of gurgling water. I, on the other hand, grunted an attempt and managed to drag my back foot through a foot of brackish water, stumbling to a graceful 10 point landing on the opposite bank. I giggled. The cows did to. Just to prove his farmhand superiority, Drew hopped back over the creek to seduce the bovines and, once they started to mush across the creek bank, he sailed back over the water with them.
We squired the cows into the barn and Drew announced that we needed to pick out a big one. For slaughter the next morning. Awesome. This selection involved more than a little running around the shit-strewn barn floor trying to sequester a single cow in a separate pen. Mischief managed, with cow doo all over the rubber boots, I felt quite farm-y.
The next morning, I met the breeding herd. When I thought I met the big-uns the previous day, I was oh-so-wrong. Those couple a bulls are massive. The relatively small calves decided to throw hissy confusion fits and get themselves on the wrong side of an electric fence. So Drew and I participated in a little strategic boxing-in to convince the calves that they wanted to use the single access point into the pasture. Success. Later that day, Drew needed to ascertain the height of his silo. So I climbed that tall-ish iconic farm structure with a piece of twine looped through my belt.
For a change of pace, Drew and I bounded into town to buy an oil filter for my car and shop a bit at the local Goodwill for cheap, slightly used junk. Drew found an ancient American flag. The original box featured the advertisement, “Now! With 50 Stars!” I located a slightly less ancient cook book entitled, “Cooking for Two!” The inside cover featured the following catchy phrase, “ideal for the busy career girl or housewife.” I informed the dumpy but kindly checkout lady that I wasn’t sure which one I was yet. My tsunami of gayness sailed right over her coiffed head. Drew changed my oil. I stood around as the moral support and “grab the orange rubber thing” guy.
On the last night of my Ohio farm stay, the Knox County Fair beckoned any and all with its siren call of fried food goodness and mullet hunting. Together with Drew and Rusty, I toured the antique tractors, the 4H exhibition hall, and the Knox County Farm Museum. However, the real treat was the Tuff Truck competition. I’m not sure if it is technically call “Tuff” truck. But it’s “Tuff” truck to me. Suped up, or deconstructed down, trucks made their roaring ways around a dirt track to the exclamations and squeals of a crowd of hundreds…maybe even thousands. My favorite part of the course was “The Cave” – a sizable divot in the track that unwary drivers would dive into, bounce off the opposite side, and forcibly kill their engines. I purchased, and devoured, fried swiss cheese, a porkette, and a funnel cake. While munching, an extra special truck, with “I s(heart) Jesus” spray painted on the side, rolled up to the starting line, revved its engine, went careening around the track, and smacked its hot religious body smack into that Cave wall. Poor Jesus.