There is a myth about farms in America, perpetuated by movies and cards and calendars, urban fantasies and posters. The myth is that they are beautiful, pastoral, peaceful places. This is not so. Real farms are not beautiful, except from a distance. They are stinky, smelly, cluttered with junk and detritus. Real farmers never throw anything away, especially anything with an engine in it or parts that can be cannibalized. And they never buy anything new, it is an article of almost religious faith.

Farms are littered with tires, rusting oil cans, boards and plans, engine parts, the pastures are lined with manure, chewed brush, dead trees, hedgehog holes, paint cans, oil containers. Farms are a daily struggle against the elements, bureaucracies and economists. I am not a farmer, thank God, being a writer is challenge enough. But I love real farms and real farmers, and when I found this pile of tires behind our barn, I decided to keep it, at least until it fills with brackish water. This is not the Bedlam Farm Farm Monument, a memorial to barns and farms lost and to family farmers who didn’t make it.