There is a young farmer near Morgan’s great mill, he breeds all his she-goats with his wife on the pill-ion of his donkey, he rides way too fast; the neighbours all turn out to admire her as-ters and zinniers, she loves breadfruit soup, she fuels his digester with lots of good . . . technology and golly gee! His gas is all free, his digester is the best-er and all come to see . . .
Thought we’d start this message of hope and, yes, victory, with a rustic ditty. In fact, let’s make it a double-ditt column: The farmer’s in the dell, the economy’s gone to hell, Froon don’t have no more to sell, but the farmer’s doing well!
Woe is we! Economy gloomy, job losses. With electricity rates at an all-time high, the IMF (International Monetary Fund) wants Government to freeze wages!
Lord, have mercy!
Now they’re pushing a law to give Government control over all your personal heirlooms. Any items over 50 years old (to wit, all my wife’s hand-me-down clothes) must be photographed. The Heirloom Czar will decide if Government will take them, by force if necessary.
My wife says she’s not letting Roy Byer or anybody take pix of her old holey bloomers.
Our house is chock-full of heirlooms. The tenor sax Dee Gee played when Errol Barrow joined in.
A scrimshaw showing the ship Regulus under Captain James Hoad, engraved on a tooth from Moby Dick, the white whale.
A stone from the Holy Land brought me by an Israeli girl who was working here. DNA tests and carbon dating prove conclusively it was the stone with which David bopped Goliath. Or the stone Jacob used for a pillow.
Or the stone from which Moses brought forth water. Or the stone that he who was without sin cast at the lady who gave away a l’il piece. Or even all four.
These are desperate times, Froon. But don’t take away our cherished possessions. There is another way. Ask Dr David Estwick. Give agriculture a chance.
The story goes that an old farmer called his wayward son to his bedside: “My boy,” he said, “I will soon be gone. Remember my last words and you will want for nothing. Till the land! Till the land!”
“Yo, pops, I gotcha,” replied the son, “but . . . ‘till the land’ what?”
Alas, for him it was too late. Let’s hope it’s not too late for Barbados.
A monstrous wickedness was wrought on the now generation of black Barbadians. Many of their parents loved the land they toiled in, the bounteous crops, the healthy lifestyle.
But politicians, union leaders, even teachers, instead of inspiring and facilitating them to take over the land and manage it with their centuries of expertise, harped on slavery and exploitation, and poisoned their minds against agriculture.
Believe me, friends, there is no better life. And the money, even in these hard times, is good.
Let us then support Dr David Estwick and bring back agriculture with an aggressive campaign. Starting with a calendar featuring Rihanna-like youths engaging in the more popular agricultural pastimes – trimming the bush, hoeing, forking, milking, riding, brushing, breeding . . . .
Two projects coming up: after 26 years of providing free gas, my methane digester is now being cleaned and serviced. Water hyacinth is used elsewhere in digesters. Why not sargassum seaweed? My plan is to tow the whole two million square mile Sargasso Sea over to our coast and use it in digesters to generate electricity.
Secondly, I know little of the Four Seasons Project. But as far as using our National Insurance funds to finance it, methinks the Boos have it. As in, no way!
Instead I’m proposing a Four Seasonings project with its own song. (Tune: Scarborough Fair.). It goes: Are you going to Dickey Hoad’s farm? Marjoram, thyme, basil and chive. With food so sweet the tourists we’ll charm; they’ll flock to Bim like bees to a hive.
I have hit on a unique combination of those herbs, which will eclipse Kentucky Fried and CocaCola worldwide. Tell Tony Marshall to send over several millions.
And remember, till the land . . . .
