I pulled over to take a photo of the aluminum barn, one of my favorite’s and a big stinky, rumbling old Chevy pulled up with two good old boys in it. They smiled. “Sell your farm yet?,” they asked. No, I said. I knew I didn’t know them, but I also knew that didn’t matter. They knew me.

“Spend a lot of money on this barns didja?,” said Bob, smiling a bit. Yes, I said, I sure did. “You’ll never get it back,” they said. “No, I sure won’t.”

“Moving into Florence’s place?” Yes,  I said. “Knew her all her life,” he said. “Used to go shoot woodchucks for her back in the day?”

“Really?,” I said. “That’s what you do?” I had not expected that from these two ruddy, wrinkled and fit old men.

Yes, said Bob, introducing Tom. We go shoot woodchucks for farmers. Keep tractors from falling into holes, crops being damaged. Woodchucks can be wicked destructive.” Bob told me in great detail how they put out bait, brought beer, sat for hours in the sun or in blinds with their rifles and scopes waiting for the chucks to come out, and then pick them off one by one. Got $15 per chuck, he said. Or sometimes, flat fee if it’s good enough.

“You  busy?” I asked. “Busy enough,” he said. “We’re booked up through mid-July. Not easy clearing out these big fields, the chucks can be pretty clever.

I had not thought of woodchucks as clever, but Bob persuaded me that they were. Not easy work, he said. Everybody thinks we just sit around and drink beer, but it is much more complicated than that. Yessir, said the man driving, introducing himself as Bob. They told me they were a bit off of the grid, tax-wise and all. Yessir, I said, I bet. But they’d been doing it for years, and never been laid off or out of work. And they both said, they loved what they do. “No benefits,” he said, “but we stay healthy.” I bet, I said.

Well, Bob wished me luck, game me his card in case I had a woodchuck problem at either place, shook my hand and drove off. I love living here.