I’m a self-diagnosed hayseed, which, according to the dictionary, is “an unsophisticated person from a rural area; yokel; hick.”
Unsophisticated? Check. There’s manure on my boots by the back door and alfalfa crumbs in my coat pockets. I haven’t worn lipstick or panty hose in decades, a good percentage of my favorite t-shirts have tractors on them, and I couldn’t walk in high heels even if I owned them. I actually enjoy irrigating, harrowing and cleaning the barn.
Person from a rural area? Check. We live on a small ranch in Wyoming. The entire state (total population: just over 544,000) is a rural area.
Yokel? Check. I prefer flea markets to malls, the Bible to the latest thriller or any of the classics, walks to parties, rodeos to movies, home-grown beef and vegetables to gourmet anything. Furthermore, all our animals—even the cows—have names; most of them have nicknames as well.
Hick? Check. The only section I go to on craigslist is “farm and garden”, and Tractor Supply is my favorite store. As Hubby remarked one day, “If someone handed you a fistful of money and told you to go to town to buy yourself a new outfit, you’d come home with some Carharts and a rose bush.”
I’m no expert, but I doubt that hayseeditis is curable—not by education, anyway. Hubby and I have three college degrees between us, but we still choose to pretty much sweat for a living. I can guarantee that it’s not contagious, so if you’re not already a hayseed, it’s perfectly safe to read this blog.
Whether you're a card-carrying hayseed, a closet hayseed, or a hayseed-at-heart-but-stuck-in-a-suit, welcome to my blog. If you're none of the above and proud of it, stick around anyway--if you can't laugh with us, then feel free to laugh at us!