Sacred Ground
What a Stubborn Old Farmer Taught Me About Being Wrong
Farming is one of the only industries where you can be dead wrong, five years behind the curve, losing money hand over fist—and still be sure you’re right.
That’s the culture. Absolute certainty. Conviction so thick you could build a grain bin on it.
Oh, you run a 2210 cultivator? Don’t you know the 2420 is the only way to go? What are you, some kinda moron?
Nobody’s allowed to be unsure. Nobody’s allowed to ask a dumb question. And God help you if you do because there’s always a guy waiting to pounce, ready to tell you why you’re an idiot.
And that’s where it gets dangerous. Being wrong in farming isn’t just embarrassing—it’s expensive. It’s land lost, money burned, dirt that won’t return.
Guys argue about tillage all the time. Chisel plow vs. vertical till vs. strip-till vs. no-till. Doesn’t matter—whatever you’re doing is wrong, and whatever they’re doing is right. The irony? Half of them aren’t even consistent in their own fields. They rip the hell out of one quarter, leave the next untouched—until the neighbor switches to strip-till, and suddenly, they’re all in on that too.
Meanwhile, the topsoil keeps moving—blowing into the ditch, into the neighbor’s field, out of the county. But nobody wants to be the guy to admit that maybe, just maybe, what they’re doing isn’t working.
Most guys, when backed into a corner, will fight tooth and nail to prove they were right all along. Owning up to a mistake isn’t an option—you double down and find a way to justify it. That’s just how it goes.
But not everybody plays by those rules.
Mouse? He never gave a damn about proving anything to anyone. He did things his way, and if it didn’t work, well—he’d keep doing it anyway.
And that’s why we need more guys like Mouse.
Mouse—Gayle—was one of the last of a dying breed. A guy who didn’t mind sharing his opinion but didn’t need to tear someone else down in the process.
He rubbed some people the wrong way—probably pushed a few buttons. One guy told me Mouse made him wanna jam a corn cob in his mouth just to shut him up. Seemed a little harsh, but that’s what happens when you stand outside the fire, doing things your way, no matter what the neighbors think.
Mouse was a man of routine, but never without a twist of madness. His lunch order alone was enough to leave people scratching their heads—half a chickee-chickee, one side of a baked potato, and a three-quarter glass of chocolate milk.
Every summer, he took off for the Black Hills because, as he said, “you just can’t beat the scenery out there.” Every fall, he and his wife cruised the North Shore to see the leaves change—same colors, same roads, same tradition.
Life made sense to him that way.
Leffelman and I talked about pride the other day—how most of us would rather stay utterly ignorant on a topic than risk looking stupid by asking a question.
My dad’s got the right idea on this one, and I respect the hell out of him for it. He always says, “Dumb looks is the only thing left that’s still free.” I’ve never seen that man shy away from asking a question when he doesn’t know something.
But Mouse? Different story. He wasn’t much for asking questions—he just did things his way, figured it out as he went, and if he were wrong, he’d double down and make it work anyway.
No hesitation.
No second-guessing.
No waiting around for a permission slip.
Me? I wasn’t wired like that. I was the kid in the back of the classroom, terrified to ask why that comma belonged there, while some kid in the front row was out here asking whether or not rocks grow. Yeah, the class laughed at him, but why is that even a dumb question? Cripes.
And yet, when I finally work up the nerve to ask a question—step out of my own head, show some real interest in someone else—what comes out?
“Hey, that’s a great haircut. Did you do it yourself?”
Can’t win.
Maybe that’s why I notice it so much—how everyone carries themselves like they’ve got it all figured out. I read a shit-ton of ag publications, blogs, books, and you know what they all have in common?
Hardly anyone says, “I’m not sure about that,” or—god forbid—“I don’t know.”
Confidence as far as the eye can see. Certainty is the currency. Admitting you’re still figuring something out? Might as well hang a “kick me” sign on your back.
And yet, we wonder why farmers struggle with mental health. Why so many of us feel alone. In a system where second-guessing is weakness, where admitting uncertainty is like exposing your soft underbelly to a pack of rabid dogs.
Twenty-six different farms. I’ve worked on them, pinch-hit for them, filled in, done the odd job, seen it all.
And you know what I’ve learned? Around here, opinions stick like hydraulic fluid to a hitch—damn near impossible to scrub off without industrial-grade cleaners and a pile of elbow grease.
Everyone thinks their way is the right way. That neighbor’s an idiot for working his field in that direction. That guy’s a fool for trying that snake oil. And remember that thing he did thirty years ago in the high school library? Yeah, still an idiot.
We don’t let things go. And we sure as hell don’t like being told we’re wrong.
Mouse didn’t give a damn about any of that. He’d tell you exactly what he thought, whether you wanted to hear it or not. And yeah, sometimes he was stubborn, dead set in his ways. But he wasn’t the type to run a guy down just for doing things differently. He’d rib you, maybe call you a dumbass, but it never felt personal.
Just Mouse being Mouse. That’s a rare breed these days.
Most people are scared to be wrong. Scared to make a call that backfires, to try something new and have the coffee shop crowd pick them apart for it.
But the thing is, we’re all wrong about something. We just don’t like admitting it.
Mouse? He wasn’t much for admitting he was wrong. But at least he was wrong on his own terms.
Gayle wasn’t exactly what you’d call a model farmer. He rode his equipment harder than a stolen rental car, and his balance sheet probably read like a Stephen King novel.
But here’s the thing—he owned it. Never pretended he was building some multi-generational empire or competing for Farmer of the Year. He had his way of doing things, stubborn as a stripped lug nut, but at least it was his own brand of stubborn.
Not some recycled certainty passed down like a worn-out parts manual.
That’s what made Mouse different. He didn’t need to tear anybody else down to prop himself up. Didn’t need to prove he was right by making sure everyone else was wrong. He just ordered his half-chickee-chickee, planned his Black Hills trips, and ran his farm exactly how he wanted. Burned through equipment like matches, spent money like it was going out of style, and never once felt the need to justify it to the café crowd.
These days, everybody’s got to be an expert.
Got to have all the answers.
Got to be certain about everything from tire pressure to marketing strategies.
But Mouse? He was just certain about being Mouse.
The world could use more of that.
And hell, I could use more of it too. More afternoons spent shaking dice across a scratched-up table, listening to him call his shots in that ridiculous version of Yahtzee. Half the time, I wasn’t sure if I was winning or losing, but it didn’t matter.
The real game wasn’t winning or losing. It was just being there—rolling dice, talking shit, laughing at how life never seems to go the way anybody plans.
I’ll miss that. I’ll miss how he’d shake the cup like he was casting a spell over the damn dice, how he’d curl them onto the table like the fate of the whole world rested on a full house. I’ll miss the half-chickee-chickee orders, the way he’d talk about the Black Hills like they were sacred ground, the quiet moments where he’d sit back and nod like he had it all figured out—even though he was probably just as lost as the rest of us.
Mouse acted like he had all the answers.
Hell, maybe he even believed it.
But he didn’t waste time trying to convince the rest of us. He just did things his way, and that was that.
My dad always said dumb looks are free—meaning don’t be afraid to ask questions. But watching Mouse, I realized there’s another way those looks come free—not giving a damn when others think you’re the dumb one.
Mouse wore his version of farming like a badge of honor, never flinching when the experts shook their heads.
That’s its own kind of freedom.
Dumb looks are still free. Might as well use ’em.
Editor’s Note:
Big thanks to Dan Leffelman for unknowingly delivering the missing piece for this week’s pamphlet. His bringing up that pride thing was the last puzzle piece I’d been waiting weeks for the muse to drop in my lap.
Funny how inspiration works—you never know who’s delivering it or what the packaging looks like.
Leffelman finally got me to slow down and stop thinking about myself and my own problems for 37 seconds, and that’s all it took. It clicked.
Grateful as hell for that.
My Dad was the first to switch to no-till plowing back in the late 60’s. He never went back. His fields were very productive. He also wore out the equipment. He was his own boss and he owned his decisions. He lived his dream.
This isn't really about farmers. It's about US American men, lol.
I've only been involved in farming since 2005 but what I'm noticing is that most of the old farmers are not acknowledging the changing climate, and are insisting on traditional planting dates, crop choices, etc., that don't necessarily apply anymore, but that younger farmers are paying more attention and are more willing to to experiment. And that's what we'll need going forward--less stubbornness and more humility. But a lot of the younger farmers can't get land of course because it's waaaaaay more expensive now than it was when the older generation bought it.