Ink And Reason

Picture this: ten-year-old me, nose buried deep in textbooks, fueled by a potent cocktail of curiosity and sheer terror. Thanks to Dad’s colorful threats of a future spent hawking his beets at the market (“A peasant’s life, my dear!” he’d bellow, brandishing a particularly earthy potato), visions of plaid tablecloths and sunburnt noses haunted my dreams. Studying hard was a no-brainer back then – not just because I genuinely enjoyed learning (not all classes, just some), but also because the alternative involved a fate worse than homework: becoming the very peasant Dad so desperately escaped. He was an aviation engineer, but he always remained in a close relationship with the countryside, loving to tend to his garden and his agricultural investments.

Fast forward today, and guess what’s all the rage? Apparently, ditching the city grind for a life of artisanal kale and locally-sourced turnips. Seems the world’s gone topsy-turvy – the very scenario that terrified me is now the epitome of trendy living. Who knew, right? Maybe I should’ve invested in some chic overalls instead of that history and economics degrees after all. At least the fear of market duty instilled a killer work ethic in yours truly. Just don’t expect me to be caught dead in a plaid tablecloth any time soon.

I wrote this thinking of my Dad and his warnings.

Dad boomed with fearsome, veggie-stained hand,

“No college? No suit? No future, my grand!

You’ll peddle my beets ‘neath the market’s hot sun,

A paysanne’s life, ’til your life’s nearly done!”

I shuddered, a vision of carrots and kale,

A life spent in plaid, with a weather-worn veil.

But trends, fickle friends, have shifted the scene,

Now farmer’s markets are oh-so-obscene (ly chic, I mean).

So Dad, if you hear me, with a cauliflower frown,

Fear not, your child’s not market-bound.

Though desk jobs hold charm, and degrees may impress,

There’s a certain allure to farm-to-table dress.