People say that I should have moved that pile of mechanical wreckage away from the ‘For Sale’ sign. That it ‘sends out the wrong message’.
To be honest, there was a time when I didn’t know if I’d rather sell the farm, or have the bank take it off me. I’d had it with farming, despite that being all I’d ever known.
That pile of rust was my father’s pride and joy. The first plough he was able to buy from new. When the time came, he handed it down to me. But then our contracts kept reducing in value, year on year. We’d have been better off taking European subsidies to not grow certain crops. You couldn’t make it up!
But now I’ve found a better way. I’ve got myself an even bigger government grant to start a Living Farm Museum. Some of it will show how some farms have gone to the wall. Other parts will form a working enterprise, selling straight to the public. No expensive middlemen taking their cut.
I’m sure Dad would have been proud.
This is my contribution to Sunday Photo Fiction, 27 April 2014, hosted by Al Forbes. If you’d like to know more, click the logo.
If you’d like to read the other stories, click the blue frog!