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Maybe it’s because I grew up as a gawky kid into an equally gawky adult that I’ve always been somewhat intimidated, if not in awe of, intensely feminine women.

I’m gobsmacked how they can appear so polished—from perfectly stenciled eyebrows to painted toenails—from 8 am onwards. They give every appearance of being capable, competent and perfectly turned out. They remind me of hummingbirds: shimmering, mesmerizing, but I wouldn’t know what to say to one. And I doubt they’d be interested in speaking to me.

But farm women…now you’re talking. Smart, straightforward, with MacGyver-like abilities to repair anything with baling twine. Never was this more evident than when I checked the Facebook page of an Equine rescue with whom I’ve long been involved, ‘Big Oaks Rescue Farm.’

Proprietor Mary Moss, who oversees both livestock and property, posted a message requesting help with the backhoe she was using to lay a long cherished horse to rest.

“I need help, my backhoe hydraulics is not working on the back of it. The front works, but for some reason, the back won’t work. If anyone can help, I would really appreciate it. I am desperate at this point – we did everything we knew to do, but nothing worked.”

There were several replies, offering ideas and contact information for specialty mechanics, and I felt my lips curve into a smile as I read replies from three different women, each offering an opinion on the subject, clearly gleaned from working knowledge of heavy equipment.

“Sometimes the fittings will not allow fluid to pass through—If you haven’t had any luck, replace the fittings, going to the back, both male and female— cheap fix.”

(I actually added the punctuation to what had been a long, run-on sentence, tapped out in a rush, I am sure, because she was probably delivering a breeched calf.)

“There is an O ring in the switch-over box. It’s on the right side next to the levers.”

“Clog in the line?”

These are the kind of broads that I want to inhabit my world. Best of all, they like being called broads. As we lurch towards a Baltic confrontation, these are the women I’m going to hang with. And I’m sure Paul would agree. Because while I could get us packed up and saddled up to ride across a post-apocalyptic Mad Max landscape, I think Paul would appreciate me more if I could diagnose hydraulic issues, grease wheel bearings, or simply make an omelette.

Admittedly, all three would be a stretch.

In the end, it must be said that a generous fellow named Ed, sensing Mary’s emergency, sent out one of his excavators to save the day. And it should also be noted that while there are plenty of women out there who would love to snag a gazillionaire like Jeff Bezos or Bill Gates, there’s also an awful lot who would consider Excavator Ed one heckuva catch.