In The Blood
My Lifelong Obsession with Agriculture
It’s in my blood, and it’s in my bones
In my heart and it’s in my soul
And when I’m gone, I hope you’ll understand
Black Stone Cherry - In My Blood
I can’t remember a time I wasn’t obsessed.
In grade school, we lined up for lunch alphabetically.
Kuznia neighbored Kowalski (as far as I’m aware, no relation to former pro wrassler Killer Kowalski), a kid who grew up with the same farming obsession as your humble writer guy.
Lunchtime was my favorite because (killer?) Kowalski and I could talk about planting, harvesting, or the latest equipment release from John Deere.
While most of the other boys in the class talked about sports, girls, or boogers, he and I discussed the moldboard plow's intricacies or how to properly set an 8820 Titan II combine for minimal harvest loss.
Oh…they’re talking about farming again. 🙄
The kids around us would sigh, gag, anything short of dousing themselves in diesel fuel and setting themselves on fire so they didn’t have to listen to farm talk.
I don’t know what it is, but I get lost in farming. Whether I’m pulling volunteer corn plants from a soybean field, crop touring the countryside, or studying soil tests, time melts away.
Some people enjoy making art; others create financial models or smoke brisket. For me, farming is a passion that I've blended with my love for writing. It's incredible to have two obsessions that completely captivate me.
Many people never even find one.
Missing Link
A few years ago, when I was trying to piece together a life outside of agriculture, I was a miserable pile of goo. Even though helping people repair their disabled cars was mildly satisfying, I went home empty most nights.
What I couldn’t handle was not being outside—not searching for sprouted seeds in early spring or probing for cyst nematodes in late summer.
Not cruising past a cornfield just as it stretches past my head.
Not having the freedom to take a cleansing twenty-minute walk through a sugar beet field when life gets heavy.
Leaving agriculture always left me missing something — disconnected from not only the earth but also from myself.
Disconnect to reconnect
When I left agriculture the first time, it was for a girl. At eighteen, with no idea what to do with my life, I followed my high school sweetie six hours southeast of home.
With no prospects or academic prowess, learning to mend autos seemed like a reasonable path for a farmer with no land to farm.
During the two years I was away, I had a hootenanny of a time and experienced a boatload of personal growth. However, I always returned home to work on the farm whenever I could.
That October, when my uncle called to say his crew was short a truck driver for sugarbeet harvest, my luxurious Oldsmobile Alero was westbound on I-94 before I disconnected the call. I didn't care if I never returned to the city as long as it meant dipping my hands back into Red River Valley gumbo.
That first night, frozen in a thousand-yard stare while waiting for the crew to repair a broken harvester, a realization struck me.
Farming is what I was sent here to do—not city slickin’ and wrenching on cars.
Seven months later, that same uncle phoned again with news that a local farmer would soon lose his right-hand man and needed the position filled. My uncle said he laid down a good word for me and that I should call that farmer immediately.
I usually ponder for several hours before engaging in any conversation, especially phone calls—an introvert worthy of the name. However, I didn’t hesitate to pick up my Motorola v60i flip phone and call the hired hand-less farmer, who picked up on the first ring and agreed to employ me.
Six weeks later, I completed my studies in the city and headed home to start the career I thought I would spend the rest of my life in.
I went into that job as a young and dumb nineteen-year-old who thought he knew it all.
Twelve years and twenty-seven cell phone upgrades later, I got the call that derailed my path.
Yeah, after you finish that field, park the tractor and don’t plan on returning because I won’t need you anymore.
On the drive home, as his words pierced my spleen, reality set in. Tears bubbled in my sockets as I began doing the maths.
How long would our savings last?
Twelve years. Twelve crops. That farm was my world, my identity.
I learned most of what I knew at that place, and it was gone quicker than a fart in the breeze.
How could he do this to me?
For years, that farmer promised me everything but the moon. Since he didn’t have his own sons, he pledged to hand the farm over to me.
There was only one thing in the way. He needed just one more crop, one more season. After that, he would retire and begin his succession plan.
I heard the same promise for years, yet here we were in 2016, and I still hadn’t farmed an acre. That farmer kicked the can until he’d stashed enough cash to retire and then washed me and farming from his hands.
Why didn’t I get anything in writing?
When I got home to share the devastation with my now ex-wife, she shared news of her own.
She was pregnant.
Shit, how long will that nest egg last?
Not very damn long.
For the next six years, I bounced. A job here. A gig there. It didn’t matter where I went or what I tried. Automotive service. Car sales. College. Fertilizer mapping. Uber. Door Dash. All the things.
Nothing stuck.
After my 2020 divorce and subsequent bankruptcy, I took a hard look at myself, reflecting on my patterns and what I’d been missing.
Maybe it’s me.
One day, two Ukrainian brothers ripped into me about the parts department ordering the wrong tonneau covers for their new matching Ram trucks.
That’s the day something inside me snapped.
No more.
I’m done with this shit.
Done with mediocrity.
Done being disconnected from what I love and working unfulfilling jobs.
Done.
No warning.
No two-week notice.
I apologized and told the boss I couldn’t do it anymore.
I jumped and trusted that the universe would catch me.
And catch me, it did.
I went to work. I faced the things I was long too scared to meet. I got comfortable being uncomfortable. I returned to my agricultural roots and began farming with my best good friend. I started writing, and for the past year, I’ve shared a weekly newsletter where I write about what I love: agriculture.
None of this would have happened if I still had that job. The one I was sure I couldn’t live without.
The job I let define me and my identity.
Weaving through the seven layers of hell in as many years taught me who I was.
Wading through the waste showed me what was important.
Losing that job and leaving agriculture, which felt like the worst experience of my life, was the best thing that ever happened to me.
It ain’t all flowers
It’s hardly ever fun to shovel musty wheat off an old grain bin floor while your friends enjoy themselves on the golf course.
Farming isn’t always perfect and can be the most frustrating when the weather dictates your schedule.
Like any other occupation, there are shitty days when I’d instead buy a pair of white tenny-runners and retire to South Florida.
It’s never easy, but nothing worth doing is supposed to be, and there’s nothing else this farmer slash writer would ever want to do with his life.
As farmers, we often get a bad rap, especially large commercial farmers.
The Joe Rogans of the world say we’re eradicating the earth with fertilizers and pesticides, and maybe they’re right. I’m not here to debate the merits of putting food on the world’s proverbial plate.
But those same people probably don’t know what it feels like to drag their hands through fertile soil or taste the smell of the first cut into a ripe wheat field.
They don’t know what it’s like to rather stay with their dad in a tractor instead of spending their summers playing sports with their friends.
Those people don’t seem to understand that we’re doing what we were placed on this earth to do and doing it the best way we know how.
They have no idea what it’s like being born with something like agriculture flowing through their main cables, something that’s impossible to extract once it’s there. It’s a special feeling that I wish everybody could experience.
No horse to ride
There was a time when I'd mope and bitch and complain to anybody who’d listen that I wasn’t like many of my schoolmates who now farm ground passed down from their dads.
I got so wrapped up in the forest I couldn’t see the trees smacking me in the face.
As I sit here on a midsummer morning, reflecting on the struggles and triumphs, the missed opportunities and lucky breaks, and the tears and the smiles that led me to this keyboard.
Without those experiences, without those memories, I’d have nothing to share with you people each week. I’d be just another appointment setter for split timing chains and blown head gaskets, a cowboy with no horse to ride.
Instead, I’m blessed with the rhythm of the seasons, the satisfaction of a hard day's work, and the indescribable joy of watching life sprout from the soil.
Each day reminds me of the resilience it takes to nurture crops and the patience required to see them flourish.
Farming Full-Time is my calling, filling my fingernails with dirt and my soul with gratitude. With all its challenges and rewards, this life in agriculture is a gift I cherish deeply, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to share it with you.
Absolutely awesome post. 🙌
So many people feeling lost and empty these days. I love that you were able to get your mind and body back to where it seems your heart has been all along. Thank you for sharing!