Inheritance

What Fathers Give Besides Land

We got into our last crop, and John is still adjusting to his new glasses.

The Home Stretch

I’ve spent the last few days grinding gears in a truck loud enough to earn a citation for disturbing the peace in the middle of Montana. We finished soybeans last Saturday, and we were neck-deep in corn by noon Sunday.

On Thursday, an early storm system slapped us in the face with about a hundred acres to go, so we’re at a standstill.

Northwest Minnesota things.

Could be worse.

In 2017, I worked for a farmer by Moorhead who still had twenty thousand acres of corn remaining at the end of November.

He finished the next June, on the same day he finished planting the 2018 crop.

Try to wrap your head around that.

It’s good to try to find some perspective when your back is against the boards, and there’s no way you’ll get it all done.

I can’t tell the future, but I’m pretty confident we won’t still harvest this crop in June. With a bit of luck, things will warm up and give us a window to crack down on that to-do list that never stops growing.

I’ve tilled the ground until Thanksgiving many times and haven’t ruled that out for this year.

Some say, why do you guys screw around with all that corn? Wouldn’t you instead head to the barn after sugar beets and soybeans?

I’m guessing John and Larry might be asking themselves this question right now, but not me.

Call me crazy, but I’ve never understood the urge to get everything done and all the equipment strapped in sheds as quickly as possible.

Maybe I’m a workaholic or have a few screws loose, but whenever we’ve finished up for the season and things are put away, I feel empty, even depressed, for a few days until I adjust to winter mode.

Sure, some harvest days get long. Some days, after a three-hundred-thirty-five-hour month, I want to crawl into bed for a week.

No, I’m not a psychopath, but I do know what I love.

Regardless of the month or temperature, I love farming and am never in a rush to leave it.

Boy Blunder

Your humble newsletter writer is a humanoid.

Welp, I’ve got a little boo-boo to share with you all to prove I’m a human being who loses focus occasionally.

The other night, I drove up to the fuel pumps and realized I was on the wrong side of the truck. Thinking that I could quickly jog to the other side, I attempted to do so.

However, I heard a sudden clang and bang, which are never good sounds, especially when reversing a semi-truck.

Pops always told me to get off my bum and walk around the truck before trying to back into anything, and like a good kid, I listened as well as somebody with ears packed with peanut butter.

The State of Minnesota popped her back up by morning, and nobody got hurt, but it’s an excellent reminder to slow down and look around.

Keep ‘er between the lines and away from those pesky signs.

Contributing to the corn mountain.

The Gifts That Give

One of my first memories of the farm was around three or four years old. My dad was picking up swaths (I can’t remember if it was wheat or barley; my memory is good, but not that good) north of town in a four-wheel drive John Deere strapped to a pull-type combine.

My Grandpa arrived at the field after dark to take me to stay with them in town.

I enjoyed visiting my mother's folks a lot, especially my grandfather. He was always patient and willing to listen to my endless questions and worries, no matter how trivial or nonsensical they seemed. Spending time with him was a real treat because he was one of the few people I felt comfortable around and didn't feel like an outcast.

However, on this night, I wanted nothing to do with Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I was in farming mode and was in no mood to go anywhere.

Gramps and Pops pried me out of that 8440 and carried this demon child who kicked, screamed, clawed, and wailed his way into Grandpa’s Ford Ranger. The only thing that calmed me down was letting me shift gears on the way back to town.

When we got home, Grandpa and I patched a hole in the kitchen linoleum cause who doesn’t tackle a flooring repair at eleven p.m.?

However, it was a welcome distraction from missing the field where I longed to be with my father, and for the moment, it sufficed.

I don’t know why I’ve always been so attracted to agriculture. For some reason, I’ve always felt this pull toward it that is impossible to ignore.

Mom and Pop pulled into the yard on my first birthday when Dad said I pointed to his 4850 John Deere and blurted out, “tractee.”

Like Happy Gilmore with hockey, I was placed on the Earth to do one thing: to farm.

Yet, it’s always been so far out of reach. I’ve always been able to find farm jobs, but never have I technically farmed my own ground.

For most of my life, I’ve pouted about that. I complained because I didn’t have the right last name, my daddy didn’t have a fleet of beet harvesters and twin-screw Chevy trucks, or our name on a plaque at the old agricultural school in Crookston.

Until a couple of years ago, I had a hard time living with the fact that my life may pass by without me ever graduating from “hired man.”

For over a decade, I stayed on the farm where I came of age.

In the beginning, I didn’t know shit, though I thought I knew everything.

Kids, am I right?

It was on that farm where I learned how to seed, how to spray, how and when to harvest. I knew the ins and outs of the behind-the-scenes work—the books, the bins, the bastards bidding up the land rent—all the things.

Instead of mindlessly sitting in a tractor, I focused on what worked on the farm and what didn’t.

Destined for more than a grain cart guy or truck driver, I didn’t know how to get there without a million bucks, clams, bones, or whatever you call them.

For thirteen years, I waited, hoping for the call. It felt like chasing a dollar on a fishing line.

For one season, I got to off-the-books-farm one hundred acres of soybeans. I spent more time in that field of soybeans that summer than I did anywhere else.

But that was it. The phone never rang again.

Like Shoeless Joe Jackson, I just wanted to have one more catch.

The catch that never came.

Darn tootin’

In 2016, after finishing sewing that year's seeds, my boss and mentor of the past thirteen years told me he no longer needed me.

That day, my identity disappeared like a burp in the breeze. I let it slip so far away that it took nearly seven years to find.

Something inside kept me going, kept me from completely snuffing out the lights when the world got too dark. Like A Flock of Seagulls, I ran. I ran so far away but came up empty-handed and dormant, but I never stopped searching.

I couldn’t find it in crop scouting or soil testing. Going back to the automotive world was no different. I kept feeling like something was missing.

At night, I would go to the field to help my brother-in-law clean ditches or combine or pull trucks in the sugar beet field.

The days after, when I’d get up and help people with vehicle problems or scout for weeds, were always the most challenging days to get out of bed because my gut knew I was heading in the wrong direction.

I spent my time away from the dirt when I should have been in it.

That period of searching culminated with me losing a marriage and the chance to spend every day with my young boys, the only thing holding me together.

When I had enough of automotive service advising, I walked away and left the rest to fate. I jumped and trusted that the universe would catch me.

No job. No plan. There was finally nothing left to lose.

And catch me, she did. She caught and dropped me right back where I belonged, playing in the dirt.

Smelling those sweet smells, like when you stop to get out and pee while chisel-plowing wheat stubble, and that smell hits you. Not the pee, but the dirt.

It’s the smell of home, of comfort, of familiarity. That smell makes me feel like a child in his mother’s arms after scraping his knee.

The smell that takes you back to Earth when the rest of the world seems like too much.

Farming, for me, is home. It’s not only a connection to the dirt, but more importantly, it’s a connection to the place where this all started.

It’s the linkage to my father. Even though we don’t talk as much and might only see each other a few times a year, farming keeps that connection alive.

But it’s more than just farming. It’s more than having a fleet of Massey Ferguson 760 Combines and single-axle gas burners. It’s more than collecting the checks.

Those things matter, but not as much as this thing we do.

It’s not about inheriting six-quarters of land or a fleet of fancy machines. I already inherited the best gift, knowing I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.

Everybody has a job or purpose when put on this Earth. Sadly, not everybody is lucky or persistent enough to find it. Because if you want to find it, you must forage through the yucky parts. You must crawl through the stink and shit. Not everybody is willing to do that.

Thankfully, I was and still am.

I’m a lucky man. So thank you, Dad. Thank you for giving me a gift that holds no monetary value.

Priceless.

Thank you for reading; I’ll catch up with you next week.