Long Time, No Blog

You know the excuses:

I'm busy.

I'm hot (we're on day 157...well not really...of HOT weather).

I have writer's block.

I'm hot.

Either way, it's been awhile, and I know you've all been waiting with bated breath for my next post (ha, ha), but you've also already been there yourself.

Uninspired.

That's the bottom line. As far as advocating for agriculture, I'm still the first to stand up and tell my story, but here's the deal: farming, the actual job of farming, right now kind of stinks.

It's dry. Remember a few months ago when it was wet? Well, it's now the opposite. Remember how we couldn't buy a dry day in the spring? Now we can't pray enough to God to send rain to save our beans.
Remember how lush and green the corn crop looked in my first few pictures of the corn growth journal?

Those are the only ones I took.

It's now too hot, and the corn is starting to look snarly, in a semi-good, nearing harvest time way, but I don't have the mental energy to be okay with farming as a means of employment right now, so why would I take a picture of it?

Seasoned farmers will call me weak. Those who have "been there, done that" will cry, "whiner!" And maybe I am, but this lack of control, this doing everything right for it to be zapped by unrelenting dry weather is hard, on everyone. Not just the farmer's wife...the farmer sitting across from me at the dinner table has a new worry line across his brow. The kids notice that we're short with each other. Jack even came rushing out of his bed, long after we assumed he was asleep the night we finally received enough rain to make a semi-dent on the crusted, crack soil.

It's too much.

I'm not sure how much I can take, but I will tell you, we won't quit. We're pressing onward, because unlike a job that you can go and complain to the supervisor or boss or manager when your working conditions are unsuitable, we'd have to take it up to the man upstairs. Let me tell you, I have. God knows what we need, but God also knows how much we can handle, and evidently, he thinks I have nerves of steel.

Although this is a whiny, woe-is-me post, I would like to end with the thought that we are fine. We aren't in Syria...we are healthy...we are surrounded by love and family and are safe. So what if it's dry? That's what crop insurance is for, right? We've planned for disaster, you just hope to never have to really use that plan.

My hopes is that by coming clean with my worry, my mojo of writing will come back. My lightheartedness in the face of darkness will return, and I'll start laughing about dirt and dust, instead of throwing the broom at the floor...which may or may not have ever happened.

In the meantime, friends, pray for peace in the world. My peace of mind is so small, and in light of the date today, pray that we on this Earth can learn to figure out how to get along with others, and maybe then we can consider writer's block and heat big problems, not bombings and killings.

Feels Like Home

I remember the day vividly.

When we moved here seven years ago, we were advised to not worry about not getting connected from the start. We were told once our kids got into school, we'd find our "niche" in the community.

Just give it time.

Don't worry.

You'll feel a part of the community.

However, I didn't believe "them," as I was a town kid, and in order to feel a part of a community, one needed to live in that community. Like, live IN the TOWN, where there are sidewalks, and friends, and places to ride a bike, and...gasp...neighbors.

That was seven years ago, and until this weekend, I still believed that until I had an address that didn't take up three lines on an envelope, I would never, ever feel like I belonged in my community. Because, where is it, anyway?  (I've alluded to this before.) My jealousy of town-livers was raging hard as back-to-school approached. Most of my friends are in a neighboring town, one where my kids don't go to school. As they talked about their kids' teachers, who their kids played with, I wondered who in the world I'd have those conversations with. I had lived here for seven years, and I still went to Open House at school, feeling like a new parent.

Where do I belong? Who do I know? Why don't I have a neighbor to drink coffee with, without having to make dust on my crummy country road...which is another post for another day.

Anyway, back to this weekend. For the second weekend in a row, our tiny town of Yates City (not Farmington, which, although tiny in comparison to any urban area, is the bigger town...but that's confusing) had another community event. The Harvest Home Festival was the weekend prior, and, in the grand tradition of festivals around here, was complete with a baby contest, 5K run, pork chop lunch, kiddie and adult tractor pull, and enough carnival rides to make you want to lose your pork chop lunch.

It was a glorious weekend, weather-wise (even though we could use a rain, but that is another post...perhaps I need to post more?), so we had a great time. We ran the 5K, we ate our pork chops, the kids pulled tractors, and the adults worked the food tent.

All the while, we were making connections.

Amidst the distribution of hot dogs and cooking chops, Joe and I were among the people.

Our people.

We were asking questions about 4-H and getting to know those who might not be close enough to share a property line with, but have kids who ride the same bus, pass the same sites on the way to work, and our in our community. It just looks different from what I'm accustomed to.

Then came this weekend.

On Saturday, our little fire department, along with the neighboring community's fire department, put on a really great fire safety day for the kids. And, while it was orchestrated perfectly, and included events that could quite possibly have made my son's year (what two year old doesn't want to squirt a fire hose or honk the fire truck's horn, all the while wearing a new fire hat, waiting for the LifeFlight Helicopter to land?), we were out, and about, amongst our community members. Many were the same as last weekend, but some were new friends: teachers of our kids, country neighbors, and town friends.

I came home and took a deep breath.

I'm not discounting my dear, dear friends in the neighboring town. Amy, Kathleen, Rachel, Katie (to name a few)...all you peeps are invaluable to me, but at a a football game, I'll always be wearing purple and gold, and sitting on the other side. Knowing that I finally belong in a community, finally know teachers, finally will have some idea of who to sit by if I ever get to sit down at a softball game is life changing.

I know I'll still have moments when I feel like an outsider, and I'll always have those junior high-esque doubts at whether or not I'll really ever fit in, but at least for now, I am starting to feel like this place is home. We have some roots. Our kids have friends, we have friends, and that day, seven years ago, when I was at my loneliest, that person was right.

Give it time.

Time is valuable when making connections, and I'm thankful to have finally made them, even if it was while wearing a pair of plastic gloves and doling out pork chops, or squirting the fire hose.

Customer Service

Oh it's been one of those weeks.

I will spare you the details, and instead share with you lovely country memories.

Like propane tanks and crop dusters.

You know it's been a rough week when propane tanks and crop dusters make you happy.

So, we have this ugly propane tank in our east yard, and we also have lovely, big windows that face the east, and thus, face the propane tank. It was getting kind of scuzzy, but because it's always been there, it's become white noise...well, actually rust and white noise...but we've ignored it. My loving, but oh-so-somewhat-pushy mother (love you, Mom), kept mentioning we could landscape around it. Thanks Mom...I'll do that in between cleaning the bathrooms, wiping runny noses, 18 loads of laundry, delivering a zillion calendars for work, and then I'll plant some bushes.

After that, you'll find me in the corner, weeping.

Anyway, it was bad, but surprisingly, I have developed a high tolerance for rusty propane tanks. They look "shabby chic," right?

Right.

However, I noticed the lovely folks at Central Butane were parked in my yard the other day.

And they were POWERWASHING my tank! It looked less rusty, somewhat cleaner, but I was so thrilled that someone showed up, unannounced, and worked in my yard for me...if only the deck painting fairies would now show up...

Anyway, because I have become so accustomed to this gross tank, I thought a wash was sufficient, but NO! The good people at Central Butane (please give them business) PAINTED my propane tank.

Without being asked.

Without being paid.

Without even coming to the door.

I love them.

Then, to make my country lovin' heart swell even bigger, because I have become the Grinch this week, our crop duster, who although flying nearly 100ish miles over our field, noticed that we had a kids' picnic table on our deck. It is bright, but seriously...this dude is flying, and flying fast, and although low, is still flying.

Joe knows him, so when he saw him out and about, he mentioned to Joe that even though he had waited to do our field near our house until an absolutely still day, and there was minimal drift, we might want to just wipe off that table, because, although it won't hurt us, we shouldn't probably eat off of it until it's wiped off.

That's thoughtfulness, folks.

I know there are some of you freaking out because we crop dust anyway. You are welcome to have your opinion, as we are, too, but know this: I'm not out there taking a big, deep breath of crop dust fungicide, nor am I going to lick my kids' picnic table after our friend applies via the air. However, I do know that we are safe and protected and cared for by loving, kind, and smart people.

These are the people who are helping out in the world of agriculture.

These are the people who are keeping tabs on the safety of your food and fuel.

And they are lovely.

That, my friends, is customer service.

Perhaps Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois or Wal-Mart should take a class from these lovely people.

Cultivating a Happy Marriage

Writing an anniversary post is tricky.

In fact, Joe just came in and said he guessed he needed to post the, and I quote, "obligatory anniversary post" on Facebook.

Nice.

However, ten years of wedded bliss is a big deal, right?

Big enough for our "big girl" (Anna is 8) to take us out for lunch at the Yates City Deli, her treat.

Big enough to have a babysitter and a nice meal, right?

Absolutely.

I think, however, tonight's celebration and our reflection on the day's events ten short (and sometimes seemingly long) years ago is more than just thinking about the events that took place that day.

That was just the wedding.











Today, I'm reflecting upon our marriage.

Sure, ten years ago, I spent a lot of time thinking about my dress, the flowers, the songs to be played, the food, the cake, and some silly idea that I would make all the seating cards and fold them to look like chairs. When was I ever crafty?

Evidently, there was a time.

That day was one to remember, not just because of the decorating decisions and the good food, but the weather was and still is a big topic of conversation when our wedding comes up.

Remember the hail?

Remember the wind?

Remember that it finally stopped and was really nice?

Now that I write those events in order, it is kind of indicative of a marriage, especially one like ours, that is centered around farming.

We've had hail, and we've had wind.

But in farming, we've also had drought.

We've had dust.

We've had snow and bitter cold during calving season.

We've had mud.

We've had too much rain.

But despite all these factors, we've reaped great harvests.

Isn't that what marriage is supposed to do, too? Reap a good harvest, despite the seemingly yucky and tricky times? We've lost and changed jobs, veering our career paths left and right, but we've cultivated and worked at keeping a good outlook and a happy life, so that's a bountiful harvest, right?

We've questioned whether we're doing the right thing, being out here, raising a family on a working farm when our industry is at the mercy of the weather, the markets, and the increasingly vocal, increasingly critical general public. However, when our kids introduce themselves proudly as "farm kids" or "country kids," I can't help but smile. This life is all they know, and Joe and I have cultivated that pride.

And, even though I sometimes long for those days, ten years ago, when we lived in town, on a cul-de-sac, in a house with--get this--a SWIMMING POOL. Must have been the same timeframe when I considered myself crafty...I'm digressing...I am not sure I could go back there, to that life. Out here, Joe and I have had to figure out how to do things differently. Our current life path is not necessarily the way we saw it ten years ago, but we're forging a new one, and that's exciting.

Farming is hard. Marriage is harder. However, we've worked hard at figuring out how to love each other despite the unpredictability of every single aspect of life out here. I know all marriages are work, but when your job is not just your job, and your life is consumed by things that are beyond your control, you can't help but cling to something that is steadfast.

And, thank goodness Joe is steadfast.

Farming has tested our faith, our patience, our lifestyle, and, subsequently, our marriage, but despite all that, we've reaped a great harvest since that first day on August 2, 2003.

Thanks for marrying me, Joe. Here's to many, many more years of good harvests.

A Dime A Dozen

In case you haven't noticed, I went to a blogging conference.

What? You HAVE??

Sorry about blowing up your Facebook newsreels with giddy pictures of me with new friends, famous people, and funny statuses...I don't get out much.

Before I went to BlogHer, I thought I had this whole blogging thing figured out. I thought I had a nice little following, a good grasp on technology, and was pretty darn confident that I was a pretty good writer, and lots of people wanted to read what I had to say.

Enter BlogHer.

REALITY CHECK.

From the first lunch with the "Ag Girls" (as we were referred to by BlogHer's CEO) where I didn't know how to eat with chopsticks, and there was NO FORK TO BE FOUND, to my fumbling introduction about how I really didn't know anything about agriculture as I sat with executive directors, women who made their livelihoods and had college degrees in agriculture, and even were actually...gasp...the FARMER in their operation, I realized I didn't have a CLUE with this group. And these were supposed to be my peeps! Yikes!

So I decided to shut up and listen, interjecting humor when needed, and glean from their expertise in ag-vocacy.

It was like my Psych 100 class in 1996 all over again. Everyone who went to college has a story like this: crying to the Teaching Assistant about getting yet another D on yet another quiz, and having aforementioned TA say, "Too bad. Study harder."

The women I was grouped with via Illinois Farm Families are good at what they do, and although I deem myself a confident person generally, in this situation, I was just a dime a dozen. Just another blogger with just another story to tell.

But that's okay, because we all need a gut check now and then. We all need to be challenged to up our game, see who's out there doing what we think we do well, better. It's healthy for a person's confidence to be knocked down a notch here and there. Plus, these ladies were really nice and kind and gracious, offering me help with everything from chopsticks and marketing for my blog, so that helps.

I'm not saying this to get "Oh Emily, you're great at what you do" compliments. I am reflecting on my previous over-confidence and am going to learn from this.

I do have a story to tell, and generally, I do tell it well. However, in a situation such as BlogHer, it's best to be just one of those "dime a dozen" bloggers, and listen to the amazing stories and good advice from the gals around the table. I mean, some of these people had just returned from livestock management trips in Europe, trips to Japan (where chopsticks are the norm...thanks Janice for teaching me!), and have worked at the state level of government in the agriculture sector.

I think I stared in awe most of the time.

And that was just lunch.

On the first day.

I could have spent the rest of the time at the conference following these women around like a Freshman follows a Senior during high school. I also could have sulked back to my room, lamenting on my little number of readers/followers, embarrassed by my lack of tweets in the past year.

However, I did not.

I have a story to tell. I have a voice. I know my audience.

Enter in the BlogHer Voices of the Year writers. It's like the Oscars for blogging. Queen Latifa (which was pretty cool) was the MC for the night, and with each blogger, I realized what was the common thread between them all.

They weren't cramming their agendas down my throat like a Pilsbury doughnut (which I did enjoy at the expo, and gladly had crammed down my throat a few times, or more).

They weren't trying to necessarily change my viewpoint on gun control or being gay or the welfare system.

They were just telling their story, from their point of view. And what I took away from just that two hour time frame as woman after woman took to the stage is that just as I have no idea what it's like to be a single mom on welfare, conversely, that woman has no idea what it's like to be a mom of four on a cattle farm. So who am I to tell her what's right or what's wrong?

As I sat at this event, I realized why I loved Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, and it wasn't just her onion string recipe or her cinnamon rolls. She is real. She is just one of us, telling her story, and being accessible. After she spoke, I was not intimidated at all to ask her for a picture, to gush over the fact that she had changed my life as a cook, and that's because she was real. Just a mom, in Chicago, hoping to cut out and hit the Magnificent Mile, just like we did.

At the Voices of the Year event, I realized that even though I disagreed with a lot of the bloggers when it came to the social issues they wrote about, I didn't feel ill will towards them because they were doing what I am trying to do with this blog.

They're just trying to get their story out. They're writing about their life, and while "Life" blogs are a dime a dozen (BlogHer did a poll, and that's what like 95% of us were writing about), no one's life is a dime a dozen.

We all have a story to tell, and I need to do a better job not only telling mine, but just to listen.

Conversely, I would hope that she would listen to me, too. I hope that the women who I came in contact with from the vegan animal rights activist to the blogger from San Francisco who held a sign against GMOs, but really has no idea why they are supposedly bad, will associate me with a positive view on agriculture. I am hopeful that even if I don't change a vegetarian into someone who enjoys a ribeye as much as I do, that woman would at least respect my lifestyle enough to maybe ask a question about how we care for our animals before speaking out against American agriculture.

It is not my job to change someone's mind. I can't do that. We're all human and have brains and lifestyles and choices and experiences that have defined us and helped make our decisions.

However, I would hope that through an experience such as BlogHer or any of my other interactions as an advocate for agriculture that I could at least be less than a dime a dozen blogger, and more of a face for who is producing food and fuel for our country.

Although I sat with eight other ag bloggers, my story is completely different from Leah, and Katie, and Janice, and Stacy, and Emily, and Jenny and Nancy and Aimee. Our stories together can tell a great tale of American agriculture, but it is lofty to think that we can change the world, one blog at a time. Instead, I took away from BlogHer that if I continue to try to just meet people where they are and keep telling my story in an accessible, readable, and funny way, I can walk into BlogHer next year feeling less like a Freshman, and maybe more like a second semester Sophomore.

I have so much to learn when it comes to this blogging gig. I have so much to spruce up, and figure out and for the love of Pete would someone tell me why I also need to tweet and Facebook and Instagram???

However, I am proud of the fact that I am true to my original voice. I am happy to tell my story and not cram it down your throat. Our life is our life, and while I may get snarky here and there in regards to folks telling us what to do and think, when they have little to no understanding of our life as livestock farmers, I want to be one of those meet in the middle, under the umbrella of peace advocates. Not the scary, don't cross me, I hate everyone but those who think like me advocates.

Telling your story is important. That's what I learned at BlogHer, and I hope to keep plugging away, telling our story, to keep reminding the American public that we are the face of American Agriculture.

So my take away from BlogHer was more of a personal epiphany, not a set of notes taken on how to monetize my blog or how to do this or that for the blog itself. Maybe it's because I was essentially alone and able to complete a thought without the distractions of diapers and laundry and work comittments.

My hope is that I'll remember that even though I'm one of thousands of "Life" blogs, I am not a dime a dozen. I have a story to tell, and if I continue to tell it well and listen and respond correctly and respectfully, I will have more people listen.

Highlight Reel

Oh. My. Goodness.

Although I am up to my ears in laundry, have a big meeting this week to ready myself for, and still haven't showered, here I sit, blogging.

Why, you ask?

Why am I ignoring my motherly, work, and personal care duties?

BECAUSE I WENT TO BLOGHER IN CHICAGO...

AND IT WAS AMAZING.

Here's the great thing. What made it amazing is what's making my head swim with blog topics. I am not going to give you the daily play-by-play of where I was, who I met (ahem, The PIONEER WOMAN), etc., etc., instead, I need some time to wrap my head around what just happened this weekend.

Inspiration is amazing. Inspiration is overwhelming. Inspiration takes time to digest.

So, I'm digesting.

This group of amazing women I got to spend time with, from the other ag-bloggers from literally across the country to the bloggers with whom I never thought I would have anything in common with, but have learned to respect because even though they are completely on the other side of the "moral coin," they're amazing writers and people, takes time to sort through how to represent them in writing.

This was like camp for grown women.

And I want to GO BACK!!!

So, until I get through digesting, and make my way through the piles of laundry, dentist appointments, and clouds of dust forming on my tabletops, here's the highlight reel:

Corn fields in the morning, city view by lunch time!

So, is this what you think a farm wife looks like? Who's the cattle rancher, the dairy farmer, the tractor driver in this picture?????

At the expo, with my bud from HGTV...trying to win a La-Z-Boy room makeover. Aren't we fabulously color-coordinated??

I hit the JACKPOT at Eggland's Best!! I won the grand prize of 6 months of free eggs! The dude had to turn the music off because it was so annoying...free eggs, however, are not annoying!!

My new bud from the Windex booth...here's hoping for a $10,000 kitchen and bath makeover! Is that a braid in my hair?

My good friend, Lauren, working her advertising/PR magic at Windex, and making me put a stupid braid in my hair for a YouTube Video. That's friendship, folks, wearing a pretty in your hair at age 35 for YouTube!

Nightime in the city! We're deliriously tired...

Day Two: The Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond!

My new friend...well, sort of.

All of us Ag Girls got a shout out during Ree's talk, and were able to meet her!

BlogHer "Oscars," Voices of the Year.

Ag girls at the Voices of the Year...sorry it's blurry.

Our MC for the night, Queen Latifa!

Big girl dinner at Harvest. Ironic name of the restaurant, huh?

Day Three: Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook and author of the best selling book, Lean In

Adding to the Facebook family, Randi Zuckerberg, brother of Facebook's Founding Father

My view on the ride home...happy to have gone, happy to be home.

Prepping with Peach Pie

I'm getting ready to head out to BlogHer '13.

Like, there's not a kid in sight, thanks to aunts and cousins.

There's a bag packed with a--gasp--COCKTAIL DRESS in it.

There's train tickets printed for boarding tomorrow morning, early, and I COULDN'T BE MORE EXCITED!!!!

Did I mention ever that Ree Drummond, aka The Pioneer Woman, aka a woman who I scoffed at initially (see here...and I apologize, Ree) and now cook out of her cookbook daily (to which my husband is eternally grateful), is the KEYNOTE SPEAKER? I have her cookbook tucked in my suitcase to be autographed, but I sincerely believe we're going to hang out.

Just Ree and Me.

I mean, seriously, we have A LOT in common: cows, four kids, a blog. I'm certain I'll buddy up to her some time.

AHHHHHHH!!!

I think we'll talk about her delicious pie crust recipe over shopping at Anthropologie and Nordstrom, right?

Probably not, but thanks to Mrs. Drummond and the good folks at Illinois Farm Families, I'm off to BlogHer '13. I haven't forgotten those at home, however. Besides list making and laundry folding and shoe stuffing into an overflowing suitcase, I am also being cognizant of my husband's needs while I'm gone.

Like the necessity of a peach pie.

I'm sweetening him up a bit, because I am going to be gone, and because he always worries about me when I'm away, especially in Chicago (he can rattle off the latest numbers of deaths, attacks, and other muggings in Chicago, but that's beside the point), which is sweet, but kind of weird, too. My point is, the dude needs to eat, and since his sweet little darling wife is out being wined and dined by Verizon, Coca-Cola, rubbing elbows with Ree (we're friends now) and Queen Latifa (who's another speaker...and although I'm not a big fan, who cares) and even running a 5K on the lakefront, the least I could do is whip up a peach pie for my number one fan.

So there you go. I'm off for some awesomeness, and if you want to drop by and see Joe, he may need some company.

And he might even offer you some peach pie, with Pioneer Woman's crust.