Special guest post by Mary Pappas.
See her talent on display by following her on Instagram @yolksandjokes.
Are you my talent?
I have no talents. Literally, not one. To date, my only possible talent is not having one and still getting by in the world. I am so desperate to find one that I will try anything to see if it’s my talent. I live that children’s book, “Are You My Mother?” I do random, possibly crazy, things to find out, “Are You My Talent?”
I’ve always been good at my corporate jobs, and hated them equally. I don’t care about the job security, the pay, whatever. What I am really, deeply in search for is my talent. Being good at some corporate job is not a talent.
But what is it that just clicks? What is it that makes people say, “My God, Mary. You are a natural.” It isn’t tap dancing, competitive eating, crafting, decorating, writing, though I tried all of those. Almost daily, I look for something that can be my talent. I have a constant need to cross some other possibility off my list, finally prove myself and everyone wrong and find it!
In one particular round of “Are You My Talent?” I thought that perhaps my as-yet-undiscovered talent was being a farmer. This had a 95% chance of being my calling. I had the evidence. I liked the zoo on fall days. I once rode a donkey and navigated by simply petting it on the shoulder when I wanted it to turn. I once went vegetable picking and enjoyed it.
I applied for a thousand jobs that I wasn’t qualified for/would result in me losing a thumb. Finally, I got a call back from a dairy farm. They hired me to be a weekend dairy farm tour guide and on-farm event coordinator.
Before my first visit to the farm on a crisp Friday afternoon in April, I had never seen a cow up close. But that day, I went on a farm tour and all seemed completely manageable—even enjoyable. My interview took place with the farm owner’s daughter and the farm dog at a rickety table in the screened-in patio. There were 120 cows that lived in a very comfortable space. There was a spacious maternity barn where laboring and sickly cows could recover away from the rest of the herd. There were adorable heifers in stalls at the top of the hill near the environmentally conscious poop lagoon, which pooled all of the liquid cow waste and funneled it to the crops across the farm as natural and completely sustainable fertilizer. This was it! This was where I was going to find my talent. The cows were sweet, the barns were clean, and the poop lagoon was completely odorless.
I learned at this interview that my responsibilities would include (i) selling the farm’s small batch cheese and other fresh dairy products at local farmers’ markets, (ii) hosting children’s birthday parties on Saturday afternoons, and (iii) giving farm tours. I eagerly awaited my first day at the farm where I could finally discover my true me. I prepared to shine.
My first day started amazing. I arrived at the farm to pack up a tub of knick-knacks and about 80 pounds of various dairy products. I waved hello to Grandpa Farmer, who fashioned a cutoff t-shirt from a button down, worn open for all to bask in his hairless 95-year-old chest’s glory. I made my way to a farmer’s market in East Windsor, New Jersey, and stood with the best cheese salesman around. We chatted with customers, sampled cheese, waved hello at regulars. Things were looking good.
The day took a turn when I shadowed my first farm birthday party. The group was made of 7-year-olds. There were many of them. Aunt Cathy (farm relation, not blood) and I were easily outnumbered. It is worth noting that, besides never having seen a cow in person, my experience with humans under the age of 20 was nearly as limited. Usually my encounters with children only last long enough for me to use a joke I learned from my sister ages ago. It goes something like this:
“How old are you?”
“4.”
“Wowww that is old! Can you drive a car yet?”
Giggles, “No.”
“Can you fly a plane yet?”
Giggles louder, “No.”
“Look! There is cake.”
Then I escape. But there was no escaping these children on the farm. I was responsible for them and more importantly, the watching, judging parents expected me to entertain them. I am about as natural with children as I am with tap dancing. I am not graceful with either and it causes discomfort to all who are watching me flail.
What’s worse is that this birthday party took place outside. By noon, I was avoiding children, bees, flies, spiders, and anything else that resembled the outdoors. And it was hot. Like so hot that the smell of the maternity barn was a hotbox of shit and giant cow, rather than the delightful reprieve I’d toured during my interview. The most disturbing transformation was the flies that took over the maternity barn. I’ve been to Egypt where they pile garbage in 110 degree weather for a week before setting it on fire. I thought I knew flies, but I had no idea.
As it turns out, the combination of early mornings, heat, bugs, farm animals and children was disastrous.
Every weekend for three months, I would wake up at 5 a.m. to drive an hour to the farm. There, I would wave hello and reintroduce myself to Grandpa Farmer. I had the same routine with him every weekend. Then, I would spend 30-45 minutes wrangling all of the knick-knacks and dairy products into my 2-door sports car and pray that the doors and trunk would close or that a block of cheese wouldn’t roll under my break pedal and kill me. I’d drive out to a farmers’ market anywhere between 15-45 minutes away, where I would try to set up my sales tent, which would collapse on me and my sports car until someone would take pity and help me put it up. Then, I would sell cheese in the blistering heat for 2 to 4 hours. No pee breaks, but that was alright because I was sweating off the morning’s coffee from McDonald’s, which is the only place open at 5:45 a.m. on a somewhat remote highway. Then, I would pack up the pictures of Grandma Farmer on the tractor, all of the burlap (I think I am allergic), all of the left over cheese and head back to the farm. I would then promptly set up for a birthday party or begin one without any prep at all.
I quickly learned that birthday parties were my version of a horror show. The organizers fit in approximately 1,000 activities for me to execute with the children during a 2-hour period. I understand you have to entertain children, but what happened to puppet shows? I would have to move bales of hay (also allergic) to create obstacle courses, hide cow erasers in hay pens and on the rare occasion, move a cow and set up a washing station. Watch out, they kick.
Full disclosure, I never got myself to move a cow. When the opportunity presented itself, I was paralyzed for three reasons. First, the cow “lead,” which I kept calling a leash and was repeatedly corrected, was covered in either mud or cow shit. I was not about to find out which. Second, this heifer was ONE THOUSAND POUNDS. That is a 100% true and literal statement. Third, I had no help except for a teenager, who was a 95 pound blond girl from the 4H club, which I think is a club for raising cows. Who was going to take charge when the cow just walked away onto the road and went to town? Wasn’t going to be me. So I left the cow tied to the hay tower until my savior, my knight in shining armor, my if-you-don’t-do-this-I’m-never-going-to-forgive you (AKA husband) came to my rescue. I forced him and the poor girl to walk the cow up the hill to its stall.
Things further unraveled. I was also responsible for conducting farm tours as part of “elite” birthday parties. Generally, I was less panic-stricken during these tours and this was something I was good at. I would take on the persona of Genie from Aladdin during the scene in the cave where becomes a flight attendant to take my guests for a ride of the farm.
However, I had no idea what I was talking about. I memorized my script, but one follow-up question and I had to make things up. I am pretty sure at least one person from those tours thinks cows are lactose intolerant.
On one particular tour, a little girl came up to me in the tight quarters of the milking parlor and proved to me just how dangerous the combination of dumb cows and naïve children can be.
Let me paint a picture for you, this parlor is supposed to accommodate one or two “milkers” (my terminology, not farm), and 12 cows, 6 on each side. The milkers’ eyes are level with the cows’ ankles, which doesn’t seem that bad. Except never could I have imagined that cows shit and pee while they are milked, until I saw it happen. My guess is that they get really relaxed, but I do not know if this is farm fact. I do know, however, that I preferred to stand on the very edge of the parlor, eye level with the cows, which I thought to be the safest place, while my guests were shuffled into the underbelly of the parlor, at risk of any bodily function the cows so desired.
That particular little girl came up to me to let me know a cow pooped and it splashed on her neck. She showed me a huge brown splatter mark from her neck to chin. I threw her at her father and I practically drank hand sanitizer just to be safe.
Each weekend had new scenarios like this in store, more shit to avoid, more flies than I could handle. And each party ended the same way. I lost my voice, didn’t give a shit about who wanted another piece of pizza, and was covered in cake and sugar from making the most literal home made ice cream (which made me even more irresistible to the swarms of flies and bees).
Each time, I left the farm smelling of hay, manure, sugar, children and hand sanitizer.
I wish I could say that I eventually became a natural, got past my fear, lost my gag reflex. But I can’t. I had some shining moments that tricked even me into thinking I was a natural, but deep down inside I knew this was something I could have crossed off the list the moment I said hello to Grandpa (the first time). Maybe things would have been different if it wasn’t summertime, if there were no children, or if flies didn’t exist. But we’ll never know. For now, I’m onto my next “Are you my talent?” adventure. Knitting.