Farming and Family

There's a feeling of coming home as I drive into the farmyard, whether it's the family farmyard where my grandparents lived, or the farmyard I grew up running around. There's a sense of purity and freedom that comes with rural life. Knowing that your work with the soil, or your care for the livestock, produces the food that the world needs to survive helps you gain perspective on the bigger picture of life.

Farming in small-town Illinois is like breathing. It's a natural part of the pattern. You can literally see the quilt of land from the sky. The fields turned over, different greens and browns and tans. The fences and creeks naturally separating properties and crops, livestock and outbuildings. Tiny strips of streets and roads guiding the shape of the quilt that makes up farmland. My hometowns are the family farms I grew up on, the corn fields I played hide and seek in, the woods I roamed around, and the winding creeks I splashed through.

Despite this comforting image, the lifestyle of a farmer is not for the faint of heart. It's not for the selfish or the lazy, the careless or the ignorant. The inheritance of farming from one generation to the next brings home the feeling of importance and tradition, value and integrity.

The work, however, does not. Imagine, if you will, the scene: a dirty, snuffling herd of hogs four times the size of you, trapped in an overcrowded pen, ready to be sorted for market. The ache in your legs grows as they push and shove you around while you mark them with a crusty hog crayon, every movement held down by the oppressive shit at your feet. There's no point in trying to stay clean at all. Your hands, legs, arms, and even hair and face will end up slimed by some form of mud (don't think about what's in that mud) before you get the hogs you want on the trailer and the ones you don't want back in their pen.

Or a different day, in the middle of summer, when the hay is dry and the sun is high and sweat is sliding down your spine and into your eyes. The whir of the baling machine and the thud of the hay bales covers most other noises. You have to wear pants and long sleeves no matter what the temperature outside is. Otherwise you'll look like a baby tiger used your arms and legs as a play toy. Your arms are probably trembling from using a pitchfork to push hay through the baler, or from throwing the bales onto the ramp after they've been tied, or from stacking the bales in the hayloft. Take your pick. Either way your arms are aching and hay is finding it's way into your clothes to poke you and make you itch. That itch will chase you for days.

Other glory-less aspects of farming including waking up at the break of day (or earlier if you're stressed about something), being at the mercy of the weather for success, diagnosing and dealing with animal issues, learning how to fix nearly every mechanical or electrical (and nowadays technical) issue under the sun, and more!

My least favorite farming job is castrating pigs...or maybe riding in the bumpy tractor...or maybe weeding along the sweet corn...or maybe loading grain onto wagons....or maybe lifting bags of seed that weigh more than me...I'll be honest, I don't know.

But I do know that even when there wasn't glory, I felt needed and successful. I felt at home.

Farmers imbue the characteristics inherent in successful people. The farmers in my life taught me how to be happy. How to love unconditionally. How to learn from life's experiences and roll with the punches. How to control what I can and accept what I can't. How to have faith in difficult circumstances and times. How to have hope and excitement during new opportunities. How to rationalize through tough situations.

This crucial role in society has influenced every part of not only who I am, but of who members of society should be: hardworking, loyal, honest, rational, empathetic, and dependable. From my grandparents to my parents, aunts and uncles to cousins, friends, neighbors, and business associates, farmers I have known throughout my life have helped plant and grow the seeds of our united country.

My Grandpa Bob was one of these farmers. He could never sit still. He was out tinkering and doing needed projects in his shop until he and Grandma moved into small, rural Prophetstown when they were in their early eighties. For nearly a decade after that, he continued to drive his tiny, dark green pick-up truck out to the farm to check on things.

When we came to visit as young kids, he was usually outside, but came in and found the time to give us hugs so hard they almost hurt. His time in the Navy had imbued a strong sense of patriotism that he passed down to his children and grandchildren. He was always wearing a grin that said he'd seen it all and knew what trouble you were getting into before you did. He loved my grandma with all his heart until his last breath, and even when they were sassy with each other, I could see the admiration and respect in their eyes.

Grandpa Bob and Grandma Geri created three children, including Farmer Jim, my dad. Just as busy as Grandpa Bob, my dad grew up with two sisters and narrowly missed the draft because of the timing he turned 18. Instead he went away to college and earned a music degree. His roots called him home, however, and he returned to the country t0 raise a family and farm. My mother, Nancy, helped plant and grow the seed of hard work and ingenuity through her role in the farm.

Eternally up before the sun, my father embodies the idea of hard work. There is no off switch and there is no end to what he can teach himself to do. He not only grew his farm to support his family, he evolved with the times and planned ahead for whatever future was to come. With the help of my mother, Nancy, they helped plant and grow the seeds of hard work and ingenuity in their children. From a small family farm, to a corporation, they learned how and where to invest in order to survive the onslaught of big business farming that is slowly killing small family farms.

My father is more than a farmer, as many farmers are. He is an electrician, plumber, mechanic, engineer, architect, dietitian, and more. He planned his retirement for decades, withdrawing from dying markets when it was time and shifting his priorities as needed to survive. Upon retirement several years ago, he began renting out properties to younger farmers and continues to rise before the sun. Although I know his energy isn't boundless anymore, he always motivates me to do the most I can with what I have.

These two men, and the countless men and women I have met because I'm a farmer's daughter, remind me that there's hope in traditions; there's value in hard work. Many small towns around the United States were formed around farming populations, and farmers today have an impact on everything from our health to our economy. Farmers are the backbone of our society, and coming home to the farm always holds a special place in my heart.