A friend I like suggested to me today that I was a “gentleman farmer,” and he is not the first person to describe me that way. I have to admit I’m not crazy about the term.

Dictionary.com offers two definitions of “gentlemen farmer.”

The first is “a man whose wealth or income from other sources permits him to farm for pleasure rather than for basic income.”

The second definition is “a man whose income from his farm has freed  him from the necessity of physical labor.”

My friend meant no disrespect – he is a city guy now living in a suburb – but I can’t say the term fits Maria or me. And why is there no term for a “female ‘gentleperson’ farmer?”

I am no kind of farmer, I have never claimed to be a farmer, no desire to be one,  and would not last a week as a real one.

And for that matter, no one has ever called me a gentleman. I dress like a rumpled street person, wear blue clothes every single day,  and have no sense of style, fashion, pronunciation,  or etiquette.

I’m not exceptionally well educated or traveled either, and no self-respecting gentlemen’s club would have me or even let me in the door for lunch.

And even old age has not freed me from physical labor.

We have no hired hands on this farm; it’s Maria and me.

She does more manual labor these days (especially when it’s icy), and I do the shopping, cooking, and acquiring and purchasing of supplies. Without our physical labor, the farm would collapse in a flash.

I work the phones  (Maria never uses the phone) when we need something, and deal with the many people we need to keep the farm going – loggers, hay farmers, electricians, plumbers, handypeople.

One or the other of us is always running somewhere.

I have no source of outside income from other sources which would permit me to farm for pleasure or to farm at all. My once fat royalty checks wouldn’t buy a week’s groceries.

All of the animals on our farm are working animals. They make it possible for me to solicit donations for my blog, which is why I have a blog. The barn cats kill mice and rats, the chickens lay eggs (when they feel like it.)

Zinnia is a therapy dog and reader-magnet, Bud and Fate do the same. Dogs are a central focus of the blog.

The donkeys are working animals; they protect the sheep. The sheep yield many skeins of wool for Maria to sell.

The animals are an essential part of the success of my blog, which gets about four million hits a year (many repeat visitors.) I need to make money all of the time to keep the farm, do my good deeds, maintain the blog, and take the photos I give away for free.

One woman wrote to me to complain that she was put out by my asking for donations for me and the Army Of Good. She suggested I might be exploiting my readers with my stories and photos because they generated income.

I hope so. Contributions to the Army Of Good and the blog keep both going. There has never been a better use for animals in my life.

So I am not a gentlemen farmer, a gentleman, or a farmer. I am a writer with a farm, just as Maria is an artist with a farm. We both drawn on the farm daily to do our creative work – my writing, blogging, and picture taking,  her artistry.

I told the woman who wrote to me that I need to pay my bills just as I assume she does, and that doesn’t seem exploitive to me. I said a few other things too, but I won’t repeat them here.

I hope she gets paid for her work, just as I hope I get paid for mine.

I’m not into labeling, but I’m not sure at all what you call somebody like me. “Writer” is good enough for me, as “artist” is for Maria. I like labeling myself much better than I like being labeled.

I suspect my friend won’t call me “gentleman farmer” again.