Tribute to a farmer who’s not a farmer

My husband was not born a farmer. While I rode my pony to primary school, Wayne caught the tram through the, err, “colourful” streets of St Kilda.

Before we took on the farm, Wayne had the idea that after milking you could have a nap on the couch – a ritual my father had adopted. But that hasn’t been our experience. I was bequeathed a terrifying mortgage along with the farm and making ends meet means running the place at fever pitch. Wayne is still driving up and down to Melbourne a few times a week and rounding it off with 14-hour days on the farm. He’s doing it so I can follow my dream. Maybe I sold him a pup.

The workload is exhausting. Things are improving – we’ve fixed most of the water, weed and wire problems that hobbled the farm just a few years ago – but it’s really hard yakka and, with a toddler literally strapped to my chest, I’m still not pulling my weight in the paddocks.

We keep reminding ourselves how much we’ve accomplished in just a few short years. I keep thanking my lucky stars for the man I married.

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