WEIRD DOINGS DOWN ON THE FARM

When Ella Mae decided to sell her 245-acre farm down in Pike County, her attorney suggested she put it up for auction and publicize the event in three or four counties.

Having followed his advice, Ella arrived at the auction bright and early. She watched eagerly as the farmers streamed in to see if they could grab another piece of prized land. With the price of corn approaching $4 a bushel, every farmer making money on $2 corn wanted more land. The drive for ethanol was making everyone a little crazy.

A few minutes before the auction began, several "suits" walked in and sat in the front row. This was surprising because farm auctions are kind of like church: nobody wants to sit in the front row. Besides, the bodies inside these suits didn't look as if they could cultivate a window box.

As the auction began, the farmers bid anxiously while the suits just sat silently, carefully observing. Ella Mae began to fret that they might be from the government and she was suspected of doing something illegal.

As the price approached $2,500 an acre, farmers began dropping out of the bidding. When only two farmers remained in the auction, the suits began to bid. Eventually, the price reached $3,000 an acre. The farmers were out and two suits were bidding against each other. Finally, one dropped out when the price got to $3,250 an acre.

Ella Mae was ecstatic over the price. Her retirement was assured. But she was worried that her farm was falling into unknown hands. So she button-holed the man in the suit who had won her farm. "Are you going to plant corns or beans?" she demanded.

Surprised, he looked down at her and said, "I don't intend to plant anything. I'm just a lawyer."

"What did you buy my farm for?" she demanded.

"I represent a doctor in Chicago. He's the owner of your farm now."

"A big doctor in Chicago is going to become a farmer?"

"No, ma'am. He's buying the farm so that his two adult children can come down here and hunt. They're avid bow hunters and don't want to have to go through the rigamarole of getting licences for every game animal or bird the state licences. In this state, you don't need a hunting licence to hunt on your own property."

Ella Mae was dumbfounded. "But your client just paid a huge price for my 160 arable acres."

The lawyer just smiled. "My client doesn't care about your arable acres. He was bidding on the value of your 85 scrub acres. The ones that are good for bow hunting."

Now Ella Mae was really shocked. "You mean that scrub acres are now more valuable than arable acres?"

"To bow hunters, they are," the lawyer laughed.

"The world is going crazy," Ella Mae muttered as she wandered off.

But Ella Mae's world had been changing long before the auction. For many years, Pike County was renowned for its many hogs roaming the farm lands. At the annual Apple Festival, the big event was the crowning of the "Pike County Pork Queen," usually a comely lass showing no signs of anorexia. But now the hogs have disappeared from the countryside because they all now live in condos located in widely scattered hog factories.

Pike County still has an annual Apple Festival, but no longer crowns a Pork Queen. Instead, the county is now advertising itself as "The Bow Hunting Capital of the World."

Ella's arable acres will still be farmed, but by a leaseholder who farms for absentee farmers. So there will still be corn for ethanol, but the guy riding the tractor might have to start wearing an arrow-proof vest.

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