(Central Holandes, San Blas, Panama)
When I was a young girl I remember vowing to myself that I would never marry a farmer. Be it the tragic confrontations with cattle or the scaring affair that is a truck and tractor stuck in a field, I would not be spending my life with my father. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my Dad and my Saskatchewan farm-girl upbringing, nonetheless I made a deal with myself.
So when I met Greg I was pretty confident that this guy could possibly fit the bill. A blonde-haired beach babe from BC. He couldn’t tell you a combine from a sprayer. Perfect.
As the years have gone by and Greg’s knowledge of anything agricultural has proven wonderfully minimal my childhood self has remained content. That is until he gets to fixing something and it doesn’t go perfectly smooth. It is in that moment that I realize I found the exact replica of my father. The string of potent profanity that resounds around the absurdly trivial problem is the exact same sound bite I grew up on.
Today’s trigger, a faulty caulking gun. Our galley sink has been leaking so on this rainy day Greg took it out and re-did the counter seal. A decent little project that he approached with purpose. Working upside down scraping old silicon off the underside of the sink is an enjoyable enough experience for Greg. Not a word from his mouth. But when something so slight as a caulking gun mis-loads, watch out. I enjoyed a 20 minute show as Greg cursed anything and anyone remotely connected to the fabrication, distribution, or selling of such a product.
It was in this moment that I review my young commitment. Maybe I should have been a little bit more specific than “farmer”.