I really would walk a million miles for one of those smiles. These days it seems you have to. I imagine if I was an employer, I’d make it my business to employ only people with big beautiful genuine smiles. Because they’re the winners. You know the ones; the real humdingers, wide on the face, honest, trusting. I love them. People don’t give them out liberally anymore. Not in shops, not on the street, not in ordinary cafes. Indeed, smiling seems to be a five star experience. No fair. Why do I have to pay extra for a smile? It seems like honesty and kindness (two whole other blog posts), they’re no longer a given.

I’m lucky in life to be surrounded in ‘the inner circle’ with smilers and am most privileged. But why should it be a privilege and when did everyone stop smiling? Have they? I once, as a student, had the best job, I worked in a well known tourist store in Blarney, Co. Cork as a Sales Assistant. I smiled all day. Selling tweed jackets although I knew nothing about it, I was proud to be Irish and welcoming visitors and chatting to them all day. I smiled because I knew I was doing my bit for my country and because that’s what I do and it was loved and appreciated all summer long and I had so much fun. I know, Polllyaaaaaaaanna. But get past it. Stop being cynical and I’m saying that to myself more than to you, and start smiling and expecting that smile in return. There a few things as fabulous.  Go on, give us a smile.

Today at farming college I was reminded once again of the dangers of farming having heard the story of a long time milker who lost an eye after an accident with detergent. After forty five years farming, of doing the same routine job cleaning the bulk tank, he lost an eye. When I started going to the milking parlour, I saw the dangers everywhere. The size of those cows, what are they, 600 kilos? My farmer used to shrug ‘I mind myself don’t worry.’ And on that tractor? Do you always put the shovel to the ground? ‘I do. I do.’ And when walking in the yard, I ask if he covers up the agitation points where there are grids for hoses to run down into the deep deep slurry tanks; a swamp that would kill a man in minutes. I dare not think about it but unfortunately I have to. There is a lot of stake. There are children now, our family.

There are times when the children farm with us although I try for the most part to keep them out of the milking parlour. It’s no place for them. Unfamiliar voices make the cows nervous. How do I know? Cows tend to raise their tails and make their sentiments known if you get my meaning. The children because they are reared to it, for the most part, know cows well enough to keep well back or know how near they can come. I hope. For although they are very placid animals, they can’t be trusted.

Some weeks back I was milking a couple of rounds for my farmer while he ate a breakfast. I can now, you know, and I love helping out. I was so proud of myself, letting the girls into the parlour, putting on the clusters, feeding them, milking them, spraying them and opening the gate to let them out. But then it came. I mistimed one cow walking out of the parlour, put my hand up on her near a bar as she stepped back. A rookie mistake and a painful one. Everything went blue the pain was so harsh. I couldn’t speak. It took a few seconds for the pain to register with my brain so I closed the gate and bent over in two experiencing a pain that I can only explain as blue. Sheer blue pain. Dull, sharp pain. My hand doubled in size immediately. I was lucky I didn’t break my hand but it still has the hue of a hand that had been caught between a cow and a steel bar. The children’s heads are at the same level that my hand was at, if a cow kicked them, well, I can’t think. But I have to.

Farming is a dangerous, dangerous business with complacency it’s biggest risk. For when you stop seeing the dangers or taking care by rushing or skipping safety procedures, you are putting yourself and others at extreme danger. Please farm safely out there.

During January 2009, I pretty much sat plopped in a tiny sitting room whilst heavily pregnant. I had a heater, a television and crisps. I was happy. Happier still because a few days before my first little boy was due to be born, I was watching the inauguration of the first Black American President, Barrack Obama. And as I patted my little boy (or girl, who knew) in my tummy, I knew it was all going to be ok. This Barrack Obama, well, he was good guy.
My son was born to a world where a good guy was in charge. Simplistic isn’t it? Pretty much. Like it or not, the position of American president is important world wide. It has ripples through the economies and societies of this planet.
My son is a clever, sensitive type. With such a lad, you have to keep pointing out the good guys, that’s how they think these young clever sensitive types and frequently, I would point him towards Mr. Obama because he is exactly what I think he needed to see. You have the sense with Barrack Obama, that it’s all going to be alright. He promotes grace as the way forward, of being exactly who you are and using that in order to make your own place in this planet. That’s what we want for our sons. That they be themselves because as Oscar Wilde puts it ‘everybody else is taken.’
He’s been ‘in charge’ while Philip learned to crawl unknowing that they was a good guy leading a world economy out of trouble.
And now he’s going, this good guy and the alternative not such a good guy is not someone I would promote in my family, not someone I’d like my beautiful sons to be. But there are always other heros, and maybe it’s time for a female role model around here. Just saying.
Thanks Mr. Obama for being the good guy and for letting us know it was all going to be alright.