Don't Go at It Alone

Harvest is a very busy time for our family.

Duh.

That is the understatement of the week. I woke up this morning, well before dawn, making a mental list of all the places I had to take people, food to prepare, appointments to make and keep, and I was tired.

And it was only 5:15 in the morning.

Anyway, it's now the precious afternoon time, when my big girls are still at school, my little ones are resting (although Jack is yelling from upstairs...I still call it "resting"), and I have had a really interesting morning so far.

You see, a while ago, I used to be a radio personality. Really? A radio personality? Well, maybe not so much a regular radio personality, but I was on the radio, and I do have quite a bit of personality. So my friend DeAnna, who was my meal ticket into the radio world, decided to switch her job to one with regular hours, unfortunately, off the air.

My career as a radio personality came to a screeching halt, and my two listeners wept.

Well, maybe not wept, but they did ask me what happened.

However, the farmwives still wanted to talk. DeAnna not only used me as a token farm wife, but the sparkly, smart Holly Spangler, of Farm Progress and Fulton County.

So we got to thinking...shouldn't we still talk? Wouldn't people want to hear (actually hear) what was going on in our operations?

I knew I had two listeners already, so why the heck not.

And here's the situation: we don't want to go through this alone. Holly has three busy kids, I have four, DeAnna doesn't have any yet, but we're all flying solo from our spouses during this busy time, and being women, we all need to process what it's like to be alone and work through what this harvest time does to our lives.

So that's what we're doing. We're processing through podcasts.

Yup. Podcasts.

What's a podcast?

Well, I am not for sure in technical terms, but I truly enjoyed the chatting aspect of it, and kind of forgot that we were recording our musings. DeAnna and Holly are two women who get where I am. They understand dinners that are late. Husbands that can't commit to anything until the last tractor has been pulled into the shed. They understand my shopping woes, and don't mind that my little guy was farming our carpet while we talked.

It was great, and we're lucky. You see, farming lends itself to bonds. That's why there's trucks lined up at the coffee shops in every small town, nearly every morning. That's why there's 4H Clubs, Farm Bureau Boards, FFA Alumni Chapters, etc. Farming is lonely, but that loneliness lends itself well to ties that bind us together in agriculture.

That's why there's stories like this, and this, and that's why the AgChat Foundation, among other groups, is banding together to help those in need during the aftermath of Winter Storm Atlas (read about that here). Entire herds of cattle were wiped out. People need help, whether it's financial, or just an ear to lend to work through losing most of their livelihoods. Imagine having to tend to a herd day in and day out, 365 days a year, in wind, wet, snow, and heat. Imagine pulling calves to save their lives and their mothers', and keeping them year after year, healthy, well fed, and grazing happily. Then imagine, in the span of hours, losing that entire stock. Not just the financial ramifications come to my mind, but the change in lifestyle would be enough to make someone who is "on call" 24 hours a day need to talk to someone.

Don't go at it alone.

Whether you're a young mom seeking comfort of other moms navigating toddler years, find a mom's group (believe me...been there, done that, needed it desperately). If you're a guy, it's harder to not be so touchy feely about needing to talk some things out, but try. Please, please try. Find a church group, a basketball league, a group of dudes to watch a baseball game (did you know the Cardinals are NEARLY TO THE WORLD SERIES??).

Don't go at it alone.

That's what today was about. In my dark, early morning thoughts, I was dreading my day. Now, I'm halfway through, and looking forward to hearing how we sound. I needed my talk today. I needed to hear that it's okay that I stink at gardening, am not the only one who online shops because where in the HECK ELSE DO WE GO (??), and struggles to find good meals that stay warm hours after the dinner hour has past.

We're lucky out here. Even though our address does not show up on GPS (Believe me, I just got off the phone with UPS), even though we are miles from neighbors, streetlights and stop signs, we're tighter than you would think with those in our same situation.

No one wants to go at it alone, and I'm so thankful to have found a place where I can unpack the vast lifestyle and information overload that is agriculture.

Uncharted Waters

No, it's not raining here.

And, nope...we're not "boat people," but wouldn't that be fun to sail away....

I have a boy.

A toddler boy.

An inquisitive, machinery obsessed, Batman toting, horn honking, combine crazy boy.

And boy-oh-boy does my house/demeanor/to-do list/laundry pile reflect it!

Case in point:

Last night, as Joe returned from taking the first few loads of grain to town and, of course, dealing with a cow being out, so a fence was checked in the dark (on the first day of harvest, of course), our little guy ran up to him as he ate his warmed up dinner and said, "Daddy, let (please say that with a "y" sound instead of an "l" sound...it's cuter) me tell you something. I need a tractor ride."

This was one of the first times our little guy had seen his daddy all day, and this is what he deemed necessary to tell him at that point in time.

"I need a tractor ride."

While the girls are excited about the combine being in the field across the road, and Anna is loving working with her new heifer calves, prepping them for showing this summer, Jack is a totally different demeanor when it comes to tractors, combines, trucks, even his Gator.

Today as we rolled in from preschool drop off, he jumped out of the van and headed to his Gator, backed it out (yes, his backing out skills are better than mine), and headed over to the part of the driveway where the guys were having their morning conversation. Cap on his head, my little guy joined the dudes and asked Grandpa for a sit in the semi, where he promptly tooted the horn. He wants to be out there. He wants to know where/what/how Dad is doing what he's doing.

It's completely uncharted territory.

We have a tomboy. We have a princess. We have a Millie (and if you know us and our Amelia...you know what I mean). Now, we have a Jack.

A farm boy.

And this is a great time of year to be a farm boy.

I just have to figure out how to keep him safe, happy, occupied, and get my laundry done!
Suggestions????

Are We There Yet?

Lots of equipment keeps rolling out of our shed.

The semis are/have been taken to get their check-ups and have had a fresh wash.

There are people along the drive to town working, rolling, hauling, harvesting.

Posts on Facebook show that folks are working.

However, we wait.

We're not there yet, and it's starting to get itchy. No one wants to start too soon, no one wants to wait too long. Everyone in our operation knows it's not quite time, but everyone is also getting that anticipation anxiety.

Joe's happy to watch the Cardinals as the end of the season draws near (did you see the almost no-hitter last night??? Amazing, and a bummer at the same time.), but I know that he's thinking constantly at what's ahead. The guys are hoping for a good harvest, a safe harvest, an easy harvest, but with our track record and the weird weather, we're all bracing for some craziness.

So, we're not there yet, but I promise as soon as we get there, I'll let you know.

For now, I'll just stock up on Nutty Bars and try to keep my boy from climbing all over the tractors that are so close to our driveway, you can smell them!!

Food Wars, Again

I'm baaaaacccckkkk.

Well, not really, I just happen to be at home on a preschool day, and my little man is happily playing by himself. So, instead of cleaning the swampy bathroom or unloading the dishwasher/dryer/washing machine (you pick), I'm blogging.

All for you, dear readers.

All for you.

Anyway, did you know the Food Wars are waging on? Still? I know, I know, this again... but they won't go away. Have you seen the latest anti-agriculture, not correct in the slightest commercial?  Chipotle has taken to the marketing waves ala Panera, and has put out this product, and, consequently, put-off, a lot of agricultural folks. Through the same methods of fear and misinformation, Chipotle tells the tale of Big Burrito and the Big Ag industry and the lovely Scarecrow who loves the earth and feeds the world, one burrito at a time.

And while I know I should have more of a knee jerk, "That's not RIGHT!" reaction, I find myself just sighing. Because, honestly, I'm tired of this fight. I don't feel like it's fair, and obviously, what we're doing to advocate is not working. And while this argument is frustrating and the information is incorrect, it's STILL HAPPENING, and apparently, people are STILL BELIEVING IT.

Thus, I become frustrated.

I can't change anyone's mind, but the food wars wage on, and thanks to social media, information overload, over-consumerism, and obviously the NEED for healthy burritos (is this an oxymoron?), the American public seems to just go with whatever is "trending." Which reminds me...did you know the Today Show has a hard-hitting news segment every morning of "What's Trending Today," which includes all things that seemingly were scrounged from the pages of the National Inquirer.

I'm digressing.

What I began to say was that although I cannot change anyone's mind, and because I refuse to chain myself to Chipotle's doors with a picture of my hardworking husband on a t-shirt and get some publicity, my story won't be told, and those of the lovely small-farmer Scarecrow in Chipotle's ads will get more air time than Joe and Anna working calves on a Sunday afternoon.

Because that's BORING! We're boring. We're not money grubbing Big Ag producers. We're BORING people who work like dogs during the day and fall asleep watching the Big Bang Theory at night. Life around here isn't sensationalized like what you see on ridiculous 20/20 investigative reports or in stupid commercials depicting farmers as corporate big head, arrogant and greedy men. We're folks who want it to rain to put our crop out of danger so we can pay for preschool, and the operating loan, and our increasing grocery bill.

So, I'm tired of this fight, because I'm starting to think our angle is wrong. I'm wondering if because the American public believes advertising more than a personal story, maybe I should chain myself to a Chipotle door (date night, honey!). Maybe I should sensationalize our farm lifestyle to get some more press.

Or maybe I should just get back to cleaning the bathroom and folding laundry, because that's more up my alley.

I'm tired of this fight, because it's not fair. In light of the message Chipotle is trying to send of kindness and loving and caring farmers, they're actually being kind of jerks to farmers. They are a profit based company, which is fine by me, but don't attack another's livelihood to make a bigger bang and thus bigger bucks. That's not fair, and neither kind nor loving nor nice.

If we'd all let each other do our own jobs, the ones that we are good at, trained for, and care about, wouldn't life be a lot easier?

With that, I should get back to what I do the best...and clean the bathroom.

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.