Hard Work and Harder Choices

"May we all do a little bit better than the first time
Learn a little somethin' from the worst times
Get a little stronger from the hurt times..."

Nobody likes to make the call.

The call it quits call.

Especially not born and bred farmers.

“Another round, another field, one more day and we’ll have ‘er."

"Just another hour, just another bin full, one more push, crank on it one more time.."

"We’ll try it again next year…”

But it is time.

And that pains me so so much, but yet I am filled with peace all in the same breath... it’s a wild and overwhelming emotion.

Dad has spent his life working, loving, breathing, sweating, bleeding, milking, cutting, growing, sawing, laughing, cussing, reaping, crying, praying, and living on this farm.

He’s burned the midnight oil.

And he's drank the burnt coffee at twenty after four in the morning before milking.

He’s made a lot do with very little.

He's hunkered down in the mud and slop to help birth a calf that would die a few minutes later.

He's chopped dry pineapple looking corn stalks by hand in July to feed cattle that was starving.

He's cut the engines of a discbine to let a baby deer twitch it's little ears and rise from the safe place his mama stuck him with the gentlest smile.

He’s looked over his fields with pride and a sunburned neck thankful to God for the rain that finally fell.

He's listened to the hum of his milking machines and he's listened to the politics find their way into the grain and meat markets and he's listened to his calves ball from behind a wall of flames as his barn burned to the ground. 

He's listened to God's call to be a servant to the land and animals. And he's followed that beautiful faint calling that isn't for the faint of heart.

He’s seen good years and some really bad ones too. 

His ground and hard work always put food in my belly and shoes on my feet and a sense of home in my heart.

 

The roots of our farm - like all family farms - run so deep I’m not sure anything, including the passing of time and equipment, will budge them. And that's something I cling to - our stronger than strong roots. I cling to knowing how so many other generations paved the way for me - a person they never knew or were going to ever know. I cling to the past because I believe so deeply that we are shaped by those before us in ways we cannot even understand. I cling to the past almost to a fault, though I believe I mean well. 

The days have been long. Some hours have been even longer. 

But the years have been so very short, my friends.

He’s not selling his ground, he’s keeping an old tractor around for hayrides with the grandkids, his buildings are in fine shape for his beloved woodworking, but he is going to slow down and step to the side. 

All good things come to an end, I suppose.

He feels the time is right and I support him 150,000%.

I remember this feeling when he sat at the dinner table of the old house in 2010 and hung his head looking down at a supper he couldn’t eat trying to find words he couldn’t say... he couldn’t milk anymore. 

He was done. 

Tired. Of so many different things that were wearing on him.

Wearing on his mind and his heart and his spirit.

We knew it.

But he didn’t want to let anyone down.

It was time. Time to call it quits. 

It wasn’t a quick decision. It wasn’t one that he didn’t fight with; it wasn’t a hasty move. 

And this move is absolutely no different.

But just like that time, I can see it is time again to move on. To cherish the memories and honor those who did and do hard work and make even harder choices. 

And that’s exactly what we as a family are going to do.

God bless the farmers- those of tomorrow and those who paved the way.

God bless the small family farms all across this beautiful nation. 

"May we all get to have a chance to ride the fast one
Walk away wiser when we crashed one
Keep hoping that the best one is the last one."

I love you, dad. Thanks for everything.

Much love always, 

Samantha