Things Worth Doing
by Scylla
The Bee Stings in Life are Free
The sheep were a great tax-break, and when they left the farm, my accountant found me a subsidy for not growing corn. Since I was professionally not growing corn, that made me a farmer, and I could write off stuff, get tax-free gasoline and a whole host of other goodies and benefits that Uncle Sam affords to farmers.
At random intervals a bureaucrat from the department of agriculture would come and confirm that I wasn’t secretly growing corn.
The guy that rents my fields is an actual farmer, a nice young Mennonite guy. Every spring like clockwork he comes with his big steel-wheeled John Deere tractor, and gets into a shouting match with the Amish people next door. When the fight’s over, he plows the field and plants timothy hay, wheat, alfalfa, or soybeans.
I liked the wheat, and I was thrilled when he planted it four years ago. It’s fun to walk through with the dogs when it gets waist-high, and it looks great. This year’s wheat, however, was different. It was thick and had broad leaves. Soon it had stalks. It didn’t look very much like the wheat he’d planted before. I went to see my farmer — his name is Martin — for a consultation.
“That wheat you planted doesn’t look like wheat. It kinda looks like corn,” I said.
“It is corn.”
“I thought we were going with wheat?” I asked.
“We are.”
“Well, that’s a relief. For a second there I thought you said that this was corn.”
“It is corn.”
“I’m confused. If we’re growing wheat, than what’s all this corn here?”
“We’re planting winter wheat. It goes in when the corn comes off.”
I started to get a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “And when does the corn come off?”
Martin shrugged. “Maybe August or September.”
“So this corn’s gonna be here for a while?”
“Yessir.”
“I think we should get rid of this corn and plant the wheat now. I’m not sure I trust this ‘winter wheat’ thing. What kind of wheat grows in the winter? It sounds like a scam.”
Martin is unfailingly polite to me. The fact is that he doesn’t answer to me. Our arrangement is he pays me rent, he takes the risk, and he plants what he likes. “I thank you for the advice,” he said. “I’ll consider it carefully.”
So, I was stuck with the corn.
I called my accountant and explained what had happened. I was out the subsidy — that was for sure. If I wanted to maintain the status and benefits of being a farmer, I needed to farm something quick.
“Can you get some sheep again?” he asked.
“No. Trust me. That’s strictly out. Not a chance. I promised the wife never again.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said.
“I’m screwed?”
“Looks that way.”
I hung up.
I was in bad shape. The Machiavellian methods that I’d used to maintain my status as a farmer (and my place at the Government feeding trough) were in a shambles. Martin actually farmed my land and was a bona fide farmer. I did nothing.
You can get government help in being a farmer in two ways: Farming or not farming. Since Martin was farming, that left me with “not farming” as my only choice. As long as Martin was growing alfalfa, I could say that there was no corn being grown on my land and I’d get compensated for it. I’m not sure what the Gov had against corn, but it must have been a serious grudge because they’d been paying me handsomely. It was too late in the season for me to not plant another crop, and I doubt that the Ag inspector would be impressed when he saw how well the corn I hadn’t planted was doing.
This may seem confusing to you but that’s only because you’re not a farmer working with the government. Just because you’re not planting corn doesn’t mean you can’t plant anything. It’s okay to plant alfalfa or soybeans, for example, on land that’s not growing corn, but if you’re not growing corn there are certain other crops you can’t plant as well. Chief among these is …
Corn.
Got it?
Since I was no longer actively engaged in not growing corn, I had to find another farming activity to maintain my tax-status as a farmer. I needed something that required no land (since mine was being rented out), no equipment (since I didn’t have any), no knowledge of agriculture, and no work (I already have a job). I was qualified to not grow corn, but not really suited to anything else. I reconciled myself to kissing my farming benefits goodbye.
Then my accountant called back with the solution.
“Bees.”
“Bees?”
“Bees.”
“You mean I can get paid for not having bees? I can do that!”
“No,” he said. “You actually have to have bees, but they do all the work, so it’s just as easy as not having them.”
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I’m pretty much an expert on not having bees. I’ve been not doing it all my life, and I’m good at it.”
“It’s easy,” said my accountant. “Trust me. All you have to do is get two hives and fill them with bees. The bees do all the work. They even put the honey in little containers for you, and they make the containers. All you have to do is take the honey in the little containers and sell it. It’s liquid gold!”
“That sounds like work,” I said.
“It’s not. I got the number for Guisseppe Smalls. He’s the big bee guy around here. He’ll buy your honey. He’ll even help you out. Call him soon, though. He’s moving across town and his number’s changing.”
“Okay, what’s the number?”
“Where is it? Ahh. Here it is: 867-5309.”
“867-5309?”
“867-5309.”
“Okay,” I said. “Guisseppe — I got his number. I need to get two hives. Guisseppe is gonna change his number. 867-5309.”
“You got it?”
“I got it. I got it,” I said. “I got the number for this Smalls. I got it. I got it.”
“When you get the hives, call,” my accountant replied.
(To be continued next issue)
(I probably owe Tommy Tutone and Joseph Heller an apology. That doesn’t mean they’ll get one. This kind of thing went over well in Moulin Rouge, so I figure it will work for me.)