To The Farmer; I appreciate you, Dad.

Dear Dad,

I have only ever seen you cry a couple times in my life. One time was when a newborn calf was born, but later died in your arms, and the other was at our dispersal sale four years ago when you told everyone just how much each individual cow had impacted your life.

I have only ever seen you cry those two times, but I have also seen your heart cry.  I have watched you push yourself so hard for the soul purpose of providing for this family. I have noticed the lack of joy in your step in between chores. I feel guilty for not being there; for not helping you.

As I sit in this dreary college classroom, doodling only heaven knows what, with a pencil that continues to keep breaking, I can only wish to be home on the family farm. Times are tough, but I believe that together, we are tougher.

Looking back, I remember when all of us kids still lived at home and the farm was a huge family affair. Some do not fully understand the amount of effort required to operate a dairy farm. I wish you got the credit you deserve, Dad.

Our farm is not perfect. The parlor needs scrubbed, the free-stalls need fixed, and who knows what’s wrong with the tractor this time, however, even through the imperfections, my family farm has established deep rooted morals, and principles that will live with me forever. You may look at my farm and not find anything of value, but I find beauty in everything that it holds.

Thank you, Dad, for putting all of your heart and soul into the farm. You have set one of the biggest examples of what it means to fight for what you believe in and to never give up. I know you are tired; exhausted actually, but know that I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

Love, Hannah

 

Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

-Matthew 19:26

 

 

Where is the Next Generation?

Where is the younger generation who will continue the legacy that so little is willing to achieve? As the local farmer has gotten older and his bones have become achy from the decades spent pouring every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears into his land, he begins to wonder. The farmer does not fear the rain clouds that are slowly moving in over the horizon, but rather a different storm that seems to be approaching sooner than anyone had anticipated.

 

The old farmer watches as his children and their children begin to lose interest in what he had worked so hard to maintain. The farmer’s children have started jobs in the city, separating themselves from the farm, and his grandchildren have found more entertainment with a video game controller and the television.

As he sits at the kitchen table, drinking his usual cup of coffee after the morning milking, he ponders the thought of one day selling his own sweet piece of paradise. His dream was to one day pass his legacy on to his family. Standing up to look out the window, viewing the stretch of pasture where the cows had ventured out to, the farmer wipes a tear from his eyes as he prays for the next generation of agriculture. Although they may be few in numbers, the younger generation displays a passion and love for the farm that proves their overall endurance and capabilities.

“If passion drives you, let reason hold the reins.” – Benjamin Franklin

 

 

 

Honesty in the Show Ring

As it becomes that time of year again, the flowers are starting to bloom, the grass is green, but most of all, it's show season! As we all embark on our week long trips, making the cattle trailer and the highway our best friend, keep in mind the value of the hard-earned ribbons that are sought out by so many. Every day, the world is growing further and further from where it once stood with agriculture.

Thank God I'm A Farmer

The day was December 10^th, 2012. The trees still had icicles hanging down from their branches from the dreadful cold front that had just blown through the night before. I went out to check on all the cows that were soon close to calving. I scanned the pen full of expectant mothers, their bellies round and heavy with the weight of their baby calves growing inside of them. They were all content, chewing their cud. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. I folded my arms and laid them over the frosted red gate, my chin resting on my arms. Some of the cows walked over and nudged my hands until I would finally succumb to scratching their furry heads. “You’re going to have the prettiest baby, aren’t ya, girl?” I said as I stroked their foreheads. I turned to leave the calving pen when I noticed a small figure coming out from behind one of the mother cows. The small figure’s weak legs stumbled as it took each new step. The sight made me stop in my tracks, a newborn baby calf! I scurried over the frosted gate, into the pen and made my way to the new life that looked to have just been welcomed into the world, its hair still damp from birth. I reached out my hand to the tiny calf. Her mother, Maggie, hovered over her, and watched my every move to make sure her calf was not harmed. The calf stumbled as she took a step closer to me, nudging me with her cold nose. She was all black except for some white on her legs and a white patch in the middle of her forehead. Her dark brown eyes reflecting the snow covered ground. It was then when I noticed that something was definitely wrong. Mistletoe, my new baby calf that was found to have been born with a heart condition, changed my life forever and led me to pursue a career in agriculture.

            Sickness and disease are some of the hardest things to watch an animal go through. In only that short time, I had already formed an unbreakable bond with the fragile, newborn calf. Mistletoe was getting weaker. She was not eating, and her temperature was at a high of 105. I could see the agony in her dark brown eyes as I sat in the warm, straw filled calf hutch with her head on my lap, her breathing heavy with every rise and fall of her chest. My dad knew it was something he could not treat, and he called the vet right away. Fred Bennett, our vet, jumped in his truck and made it to our farm in less than 20 minutes, which is usually a 40 minute drive. I was still sitting there with Mistletoe when he walked up to the calf hutch in his navy blue overalls. He could see I was on the verge of tears. Dr. Bennett gave my shoulder a firm squeeze and helped as my dad and I lifted Mistletoe onto her feet. I stood there with my arms around her to make sure she would not fall back down. Fred later determined that mistletoe had a weak spot on her heart, an ulcer, and would need to have surgery as soon as possible.  Mistletoe was only a day old, and she had already spent the night at the local vet clinic. Our vet had IV fluids going through her during the whole night so that she would not dehydrate before we could drive her down to The Ohio State Vet Clinic in Columbus.

 Early the next morning, Dr. Bennett called my dad to explain the surgery and how much it would cost. Standing in the kitchen, waiting impatiently for my dad to get off the phone, my heart was racing, my legs shaking beneath me, “How is she, Dad?” I asked. My voice was shaky and low. “She made it through the night,” he said. “But now you need to make a decision. It will cost about $1,500 for the surgery.” I felt my heart sink. I looked at my dad and I knew I had to do it. I knew that I would hate myself later if I did not take the chance to save her, no matter the cost.

Mistletoe opened my eyes to what it really meant to be a farmer. I was her caretaker, and I was not going to give up on her. With my decision made, my dad gave me a smile of understanding. We hooked up our silver Duramax to our cattle trailer, picked up Mistletoe from the vet clinic, and were on our way to the big city of Columbus, Ohio, stopping periodically throughout the drive to make sure she was okay. We arrived at the vet clinic around 11 o’clock in the morning. The temperature still did not exceed 34 degrees. A group of vet students crowded around as my dad backed the trailer up to the big garage doors of the clinic. Swinging the trailer door open, I heard the vet students say in unison, “Awe! She’s so cute.” This brought a smile to my face to know that my baby calf could also have the same impact on them as she did me. I helped walk Mistletoe into her own little pen they had made for her. It was warm and dry with fresh, bright straw. I knew she would be taken care of here. The vet who would be doing the surgery on Mistletoe called me into his office. He showed me the x-rays and what they would have to do to fix the issue. As I was standing there, I felt a tear roll down my cold cheek. I could leave the vet clinic that day with the chance of never seeing her again. The vet walked around his desk and gave me a tight hug. “I will do everything in my power to make sure you see her again” he said as he patted my back. Looking into his calming eyes, I felt a sense of peace as I got ready to leave. My dad and I shook his hand and thanked him as we walked out of his office. I stopped by Mistletoe’s pen one last time. She already had the vet students wrapped around her finger, petting her and giving her attention. I rubbed her head and said with a choky voice, “I’ll be back in a couple days to bring you home, babe. I promise.” Walking away from her to get into our truck to go home was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. That day, I learned more about myself than I ever had in the 14 years before that. Every day after that, the vet would call and give me an update on how mistletoe was doing. She had made it through the surgery fine and was doing great. I could go get her and bring her home tomorrow! I was ecstatic. I would get to see my baby again! Again, my dad and I made the trek to Columbus with our truck and cattle trailer, but this time, our trailer would be carrying home a healthy, beautiful, energetic, silky black heifer calf named Mistletoe. My dad barely had the truck in park at the clinic when I jumped out and ran straight to her pen. Tears started flowing down my cheeks. These were not sad tears, but tears of utmost happiness and joy. The vet students crowded around as we loaded her up in the trailer, smiles beaming from ear to ear. Mistletoe not only impacted my life, but all the students and clinic personnel she came in contact with those few days.

Mistletoe helped me to realize that I wanted to pursue a lifelong career in agriculture. Every evening after Mistletoe came home, I walked down the gravel driveway into the barns where the calf hutches were. As I made my way to the young cows, you could hear Mistletoe bawling from the other end of the hutches, her neck stretched out to see me. She pranced and danced anxiously until I walked over to her and gave her attention. She had me wrapped around her finger and she knew it. Standing there with my calf, a passion grew inside of my heart. I knew my passion for cows as a young girl was only going to grow stronger as I began to take on larger rules on the farm. I wanted to do what I love with what I love for the rest of my life. Two years later, Mistletoe gave birth to a beautiful heifer calf. My excitement rang through the barn when I announced the newest arrival to the farm. She was all black except for a couple white patches on her legs and a white spot on her forehead. They were identical.  As I stood there watching Mistletoe hover over her calf, the scar on her side from the surgery still visible, a tear rolled down my cheek. Had I not have made that decision to save Mistletoe that cold December day, I would never have been able to stand here and see the beautiful sight of new life like this.

Mistletoe, my baby calf that was found to have been born with a heart condition, truly changed my life forever and led me to pursue a career in agriculture. I found my calling the day I was able to save Mistletoe and watch her grow up to be an amazing cow that would live on for many more years to come. Paul Harvey once said, “And on the 8th day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, ‘I need a caretaker.’ So God made a farmer”. I am a firm believer that if you love what you do, you will never work a day in your life. Farming is not just a job, it’s a lifestyle and a way of life, and I am proud to be a part of it.