Once, there was this lady. A shop-keeper, a well-thought-of sort…
Upon our first meeting, she questioned my last name, and when I affirmed my marriage to a farmer/rancher, she sat back in her chair. Her frown deepened, and she became occupied with examining her nails.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Oh? For… what?”
She fixed her gaze on me with laser intensity, and her voice dripped with acid bitterness. “Farmers treat women just like their equipment. They’ll use you and use you and use you, and then trade you in for a newer model, just like an old plow. You can’t trust farmers. Be prepared for a divorce, young lady.”
At this point I was pissed, but since I was on a business errand, I was forced to keep my composure.
I never forgot what she said. (And I doubt I’ll ever forget.)
The other day I saw her, and overheard a few of her words:
“Oh, I always knew I wanted to marry a farmer. It’s just such a wonderful life, and farmers are just the most wonderful type of people… “