I Leave:
To my wife–My overdraft at the bank. Maybe she can explain it.
To my son–Equity on my car. Now he’ll have to work to meet the payments.
To my banker–My soul. He has the Mortgage on it anyway.
To my neighbor–My clown suit. He’ll need it if he continues to farm as he has in the past.
To EmH.A..–My unpaid bills. They took some real chances on me and I want to do something for them.
To A.S.C.S.–My grain bin. I was planning to let them take it next year anyway.
To the Farm Advisor–50 bushels of corn to see if he can hit the market.
To the SCS–My farm plan. Maybe they can understand it.
To the Junk Man–All my machinery. He’s had his eyes on it for years.
To my undertaker–A special request. I want six implement and fertilizer dealers for my pallbearers. They are used to carrying me.
To the weatherman–Rain, sleet, and snow for the funeral, please. No sense in having good weather now.
To the gravedigger–Don’t bother. The hole I am in should be big enough.
To the Monument Maker–Set up a jig for the epitaph, “Here lies a farmer who has now properly assumed all of his obligations.”