Farm Sayings Part II

Share


Farmers, ranchers and cowboys have plenty of colorful sayings. Admittedly some of them are a trifle obscene. Just for fun, I’ve collected a few (and cleaned up some of hubby’s favorites).

He could talk the legs off a chair.
He’s a three-jump cowboy.
He’s got more guts than you could hang on a 40-mile line fence.
He’s got no more chance than a June bug in the chicken coop.
He’s got plenty of notches on his gun.
He’s knee-high to a grasshopper.
He’s missing a few buttons off his shirt.
He’s overdrawn at the memory bank.
He’s riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels.
He’s so country he thinks a seven-course meal is a possum and a six-pack.
He’s so low he’d steal the widow’s ax.
He’s so low you couldn’t put a rug under him.
He’s so strong he makes Samson look like a wimp.
He’s such a liar he’d beat you senseless and tell God you fell off a horse.
He’s sucking hind teat.
He’s the only hell his mama ever raised.
Hell-bent for leather.
His breath’s so strong you could hang out the washing on it.
Hollering down a well.
Hot as a billy goat in a pepper patch.
Hot as a two-dollar pistol.
Hot as a two-dollar whore on the Fourth of July.
Hot as the hinges (or hubs) of hell.
Hot as a depot stove.
Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk.
I ate so many armadillos when I was young, I still roll up into a ball when I hear a dog bark.
I feel lower than a gopher hole.
I feel so low I couldn’t jump off a dime.
I got my ox in a ditch.
I hear you clucking, but I can’t find your nest.
I need that like a tomcat needs a trousseau.
I was born tired and I’ve since suffered a relapse.
I’d like to buy him for what he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’ll bring.
If a duck had his brain, it would fly north for the winter.
If he was bacon, he wouldn’t even sizzle.
If he was melted down, he couldn’t be poured into a fight.
If I say a hen dips snuff, you can look under her wing for the can.
If that ain’t a fact, God’s a possum.
If you cut your own firewood, it’ll warm you twice.
If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.
If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.
If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.
If you must sing, do it when you’re after the cows. Cows don’t care if you can’t carry a tune.
I’ll be there with bells on.
I’ll knock you plumb into next week.
I’m so hungry I could eat a horse and chase the rider half-way home
I’m so sick I’d have to get better to die.
In the business of farming, it’s not so important who gets there first as who gets there at all.
Independent as a hog on ice.
It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
It’s been dry so long, we only got a quarter-inch of rain during Noah’s Flood.
It’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
It’s time to put out the fire and call in the dogs.
It’s time to heat up the bricks.
It’s time to put the chairs in the wagon.
It’s time to swap spit and hit the road.
Just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.
Just fell off the turnip (watermelon/tater) truck.
Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.
Keep your saddle oiled and your gun greased.
Let’s blow this pop stand.
Let’s chaw the rag.
Let’s hallelujah the county.
Let’s light a shuck.
Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.
Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
Like arguing with a wooden Indian.
Like putting socks on a rooster.
Look down when walking in a cow pasture.
Look what the cat dragged in.
Looks like he was pulled through a knothole backwards.
Looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.
Looks like she’s been chewed up, spit out and stepped on.
Looks like ten miles of bad road.
Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.
Mean as a mama wasp.
Meanness don’t just happen overnight.
Might as well. Can’t dance, never could sing, and it’s too wet to plow.
Nervous as a fly in the glue pot.
Nervous as a pregnant jenny (jennies are female mules and they’re sterile).
Nervous as a whore in church, with the preacher a-hollering “Come, come, come to the Lord!”.
Nervous as a woodshed waiter.
No bigger than moles on a chigger.
No flies on my mama.
No grass growing under her feet.
Noisier than a cornhusk mattress.
Noisier than cats making kittens.
Noisy as a restless mule in a tin barn.
Noisy as two skeletons dancing on a tin roof.
Nothing between the horns and hooves but hide.
One wheel down and the axle dragging.
Panting like a lizard on a hot rock.
Pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered.
Pitiful as a three-legged dog.
Poor as a lizard-eating cat.
Poor as sawmill rats.
Preaching to the choir.
Put on your sitting britches.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Quick out of the chute.
Quit hollering down the rain.
Rough as a cob.
Running with the big dogs.
Scarce as grass around a hog trough.
Scarce as hen’s teeth.
Scrawny as Ace Reid cattle (Ace Reid is a cowboy cartoonist known for emaciated cows and horses).
She beats her own gums to death.
She could talk a coon right out of a tree.
She doesn’t have enough sense to spit downwind.
She has a bell clapper instead of a tongue.
She looks like chewed twine.
She looks like she was born downwind of the outhouse.
She makes a hornet look cuddly.
She raised hell and stuck a chunk under it.
She speaks ten words a second, with gusts to fifty.
She’s a right smart windmill-fixer.
She’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water.
She’s built like a brick outhouse.
She’s frying size.
She’s got tongue enough for ten rows of teeth.
She’s got too many cobwebs in the attic.
She’s in a horn-tossing mood.
She’s one brick shy of a load.
She’s one bubble off plumb.
She’s so contrary she floats up-stream.
She’s dancing in the hog trough.
She’s two sandwiches short of a picnic.
She’s warm in winter, shady in summer.
Sick as a dog passing peach pits.
Skin your own buffalo.
So bad at farming he couldn’t raise Cain.
So crooked he has to unscrew his britches at night.
So crooked that if he swallowed a nail, he’d spit up a corkscrew.
So dry I’m spitting cotton.
So dry my duck don’t know how to swim.
So dry the Baptists are sprinkling, the Methodists are spitting and the Catholics are giving rain checks.
So dry the birds are building their nests out of barbed wire.
So dry the catfish are carrying canteens.
So dry the trees are bribing the dogs.
So hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.
So poor I had a tumbleweed as a pet.
So poor the wolf won’t even stop at their door.
So poor their Sunday supper is fried water.
So poor we had to fertilize the sills before we could raise the windows.
So sick he needs two beds.
So skinny she has to stand twice to make a shadow.
So skinny she shades herself under the clothesline.
So skinny you could give her a Big Red and use her as a thermometer.
So stupid if you put his brains in a bumblebee, it’d fly backwards.
So tight he squeaks when he walks.
So ugly his mama had to tie a pork chop around his neck so the dogs would play with him.
So ugly his mama takes him everywhere she goes so she doesn’t have to kiss him good-bye.
So ugly only his mama loves him—and she waits till payday.
Soft as a two-minute egg.
That about puts the rag on the bush.
That coffee’s so strong it’ll put hair on your chest.
The barn door’s open and the mule’s trying to run (your fly’s down.)
The biggest troublemaker you’ll probably ever have to deal with watches you from the mirror every mornin’.
The porch light’s on but no one’s home.
There are a lot of nooses hanging from his family tree.
There’s a big difference between the ox and the whiffletree.
There’s a light or two burned out on his string.
There’s more than one way to break a dog from sucking eggs.
There’s no slack in her rope.
There’s no tree but bears some fruit.
There’s only a strand of barbed wire between here and there, and it’s down (after a blizzard).
They hung the wrong horse thief.
They lived so far out in the country that the sun set between their house and town.
They tried to hang him but the rope broke.
Thin as a bat’s ear.
Thin as a gnat’s whisker.
Things are going to hell in a handbasket.
This ain’t my first rodeo.
This is hog-killing weather (hogs were once butchered only in cold weather so the meat would keep).
Throw your hat over the windmill.
Tight as a wet boot.
Tight enough to raise a blister.
Tired as a boomtown whore.
Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.
Tough as whang leather.
Ugly as a mud fence.
Ugly as homemade sin.
We’ll paint the town and the front porch.
We’ve howdied but we haven’t shook.
Were you born in a barn?
What did you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons?
When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.
Whistle before you walk into a stranger’s camp.
Whistling down the wind.
Why close the barn door after the horses are out?
Why shear a pig?
Worthless as a sidesaddle on a sow.
Worthless as teats on a bull.
You can bet the farm on it.
You can’t get lard unless you boil the hog.
You were too hard to raise to take chances.
You’re so low you have to look up to see hell.
Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.

Share
Posted in Farms | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Farm Sayings

Share

Farmers, ranchers and cowboys have plenty of colorful sayings. Admittedly some of them are a trifle obscene. Just for fun, I’ve collected a few (and cleaned up some of hubby’s favorites).

A dead bee can still sting.
A dead snake can still bite.
A drought usually ends with a flood.
A guilty fox hunts his own hole.
A real revolving son of a bitch.
A she-bear in satin.
All stove up.
Always drink upstream from the herd.
An old horse, an old dog and an old farmer have much in common: they are slow but wise.
Any mule’s tail can catch cockleburs.
Anyone can farm, but not everyone is a farmer.
Anytime you happen to pass by my house, I’d sure appreciate it.
As dark as the inside of a cow.
As exciting as waiting for paint to dry.
As welcome as a porcupine at a nudist colony.
As welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.
As welcome as a tornado on a trail drive.
Better to keep your mouth shut and seem a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.
Burning daylight (this one actually originated with William Shakespeare).
Busy as a funeral home fan in July.
Busy as a hound in flea season.
Busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a 40-room mansion.
Busy as a one-eyed dog in a smokehouse.
Busy as a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest.
Busy as a stump-tailed bull in fly season.
Buzzard bait.
Coffee so strong it’ll raise a blood blister on a boot.
Coffee so strong it’ll walk into your cup.
Cold as a cast-iron commode.
Cold as a banker’s heart.
Cold as a frosted frog.
Cold as a well-digger’s knee.
Cold as an ex-wife’s heart.
Cold as hell with the furnace out.
Come hell or high water.
Company’s coming; add a cup of water to the soup.
Crazy as a bullbat.
Crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.
Don’t dig up more snakes than you can kill.
Don’t pick a fight with an old man. If he’s too old to fight, he’ll just kill you.
Don’t rile the wagon master.
Don’t squat on your spurs.
Don’t tip over the outhouse.
Down the road a piece.
Drier than a popcorn’s fart.
Drunk as a skunk.
Drunker than 700 hundred dollars.
Drunk as Cooter Brown.
Drunker than Cooter’s mule.
Dry as the heart of a haystack.
Dumb as a box of rocks.
Dumb as a post.
Dumber than dirt.
Easy as pissing up a rope.
Even a blind hog can find an acorn once in a while.
Even the chickens under the porch know that.
Every path has a few puddles.
Farming is like playing five-card poker with four cards.
Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you’re a thousand miles from the corn field (that’s from President Eisenhower).
Fast as greased lightning.
Fast as small-town gossip.
Faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind.
Faster than a scalded cat.
Fat as a town dog.
Fine as frog hair.
Flat as a fritter.
For a farmer, next year will always be better.
Forgive your enemies; it messes up their heads.
Friendly as a bramble bush.
Give me the bacon without the sizzle.
Going like a house afire.
Good judgment comes from experience and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.
Got to get back to my rat killing.
Got to slop the hogs, dig the well, and plow the south forty before breakfast.
Grinning like a mule eating cockleburs.
Handy as hip pockets on a hog.
Handy as sliced bread.
Happy as a hog in mud.
Hasn’t got a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of.
He always draws the best bull.
He broke his arm patting himself on the back.
He can ride the rough string.
He can’t win for losing.
He could draw a pat hand from a stacked deck.
He could find a whisper in a whirlwind.
He could sit on the fence and the birds would feed him.
He could talk the ears off a mule.
He could talk the gate off its hinges.
He could talk the hide off a cow.
He couldn’t hit the floor if he fell out of bed.
He couldn’t knock a hole in the wind with a sackful of hammers.
He didn’t come to town two to a mule.
Rich enough to eat her laying hens.
He doesn’t know enough to pound sand down a rat hole.
He don’t care what you call him as long as you call him to supper.
He don’t know diddly squat.
He got his tail feathers trimmed.
He got whipped with an ugly stick.
He jumped on me like a duck on a June bug.
He jumped on me like white on rice.
He jumped on me with all four feet.
He lies like a tombstone.
He loaded the wrong wagon.
He looks like a sheep-killing dog.
He looks like Bowser’s bone.
He looks like death warmed over.
He looks like he was inside the outhouse when the lightning struck.
He looks like the cheese fell off his cracker.
He may not be a chicken, but he has his henhouse ways.
He shoots off his mouth so much he must eat bullets for breakfast.
He thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.
He was born sorry.
He was vaccinated with a Victrola needle (a Victrola was the first make of record player).
He wasn’t born, just squeezed out of a bartender’s rag.
He wouldn’t scratch his own mama’s fleas.
He’d have to stand up to look a rattler in the eye.
He’d shoot craps with the devil himself.
He’d steal his mama’s egg money.
He’d steal the flowers off his grandma’s grave.
He’d steal the nickels off a dead man’s eyes.
He’ll eat anything that don’t eat him first.
He’ll squeeze a nickel till the buffalo screams.
He’ll tell you how the cow ate the cabbage.
He’s a chin musician.
He’s a day late and a dollar short.
He’s a few pickles short of a barrel.
He’s all hat and no cattle.
He’s big enough to bear hunt with a twig.
He’s broke as a stick horse.
He’s got a hitch in his gitalong.
He’s got a ten-gallon mouth.
He’s got his tail up.
He’s got horns holding up his halo.

Share
Posted in Farms, Random Thoughts | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Harvest Festivals

Share


This is the time of the year when harvest festivals really get going. The available evidence indicates that all human societies develop some sort of religious beliefs. When humans first began to practice agriculture and the tribe was now dependent on the “fruits” of its labors, it was natural for people to gather and give thanks. Mind you, I suspect one of the attractive aspects of these festivals was that after a long, hard summer in the fields, the farmer finally had a chance to sit down and drink beer.


The end of summer and first part of fall is a frenzy of picking, canning, freezing and fermenting. Dinner during that period is quite likely to be a sandwich, as the resident cook can’t stand the thought of more food. But since I was cleaning up the garden yesterday in advance of an expected cold night, we had our harvest supper last night. Rib-eye steak from home-grown beef; sliced Crystal Apple cucumbers and California Wonder red bell peppers; a snap bean medley that included Kentucky Wonder, Gold Marie Romano, Blauhilde (purple pole bean) Fortex, Monte Gusto and Rattlesnake; boiled Yukon Gold potatoes with lots of butter, and summer squash (Black Zucchini, Bennings Green Tint patty-pan, Cocozelle and Early Prolific Straightneck) roasted in olive oil with Silverneck garlic, Yellow Globe onions, Roma and an unnamed red tomato I got from somewhere I don’t recall.


While Thanksgiving is the classic harvest festival in the US, ancient pagans (as well as modern-day pagans and Wiccans) were more likely to celebrate harvest festivals at the autumn equinox. The Harvest Moon – the full moon that occurs closest to the autumn equinox on September 22 or 23 – was usually designated as a day of celebration, feasting and prayer. In some areas, the harvest festivals also brought the tax collectors out. Makes sense, if taxes were in the form of grain, produce, livestock and other agricultural bounty, to collect at the time when the storehouses were full.
There’s a lot to be said for taking time to say thanks for the bounty of the natural world which supplies us with what we need to survive. If you grow your own, you know that it’s not an easy task. Harvest festivals help us maintain the connection with the land that nourishes us – I hope you’re celebrating one.

Share
Posted in Farms, Food | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment