Sugar and Sweat: Farming, Family, and Forty Years of Hard Work

Farming Full-Time #60

Locked in a 75,000-pound beast, you push yourself to the brink while the earth spits out more sugar beets than you can haul. It’s a relentless grind—teetering between survival and madness.

I signed up for this chaos at thirteen. My boss—who doubled as my great uncle—tossed me the keys to an ’86 Chevy Suburban, and I was off, flying down backroads at 80 miles per hour to my first rotobeeting job, dodging deer and praying the brakes wouldn’t fail.

Sitting here now, strung out and barely holding on, I remind myself of that.

The insanity never left—it just transformed.

Back then, it was all about speed, recklessness, and the thrill of tearing through the night. Now? Now, it’s about holding on to the last shreds of my mind, trying to survive a harvest that never stops.

This year’s beet haul? A full-on siege. A war of attrition—taking a toll on my body, mind, and spirit.

It’s not just about tackling a mammoth crop—probably the best beets we’ve ever seen—it’s about wrestling with ourselves.

Each day starts with the same goal: to make it through one more load. Try to think past that, and your brain will turn to mush, overloaded, and unable to function.

And when you think you're nearing the finish line, the piler shuts down for the umpteenth time, dragging you back into the chaos.

The whole system collapses, and suddenly, you’re racing to unload before darkness falls, hoping for even a brief nap.

If the universe feels generous, you might scrape by with three hours of sleep. But not the peaceful kind—this is the twitchy, anxious sleep where you keep one eye open, fearing the piler will fail again the second you close both eyes.

From the sky, the Argyle piler must look like two massive Twix bars—mountains of beets capable of swallowing entire crews. And just when you think you’ve made it?

Boom. Shut down for heat. Again.

Sugar beets are delicate—once the temperature climbs past 55 degrees, they’re unsuitable for storage. The company gets anxious. And I get it—if America’s sugar supply dries up, things will get ugly quickly. People would lose it over missing Twix bars and Three Musketeers.

I’m running on fumes, thirty hours into a shift riddled with breakdowns and mechanical failures, my patience hanging by a thread.

But what else can you do?

Fire up the truck, and keep moving.

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Survival Mode

Halfway through this hellscape, something snaps.

Survival mode isn’t just a coping mechanism anymore—it’s a way of life like you’ve signed up for this demented agreement to push your body and mind to the limit.

The first half? That was child’s play.

Now? This is where the real work begins—the weak separated from the strong, the cows from the calves, and the Kuznias from the other jokers trying to keep up.

It’s not just beets you’re hauling anymore—you’re dragging your soul through the seventh circle of hell. A year like this strips you to your core, and there’s no time to figure out if you’re human or machine.

You just keep going.

The American Crystal Sugar beet harvest isn’t just an event—it’s a cruel joke played by Mother Nature, a masterclass in pain disguised as work. This is where it all started for me, cutting my teeth on piler belts and the smell of sugar beets rotting in the heat.

Somehow, forty years later, my dad still tells anyone who’ll listen that I ran the Stephen piler better—at four years old—than the “dumbasses” running it now.

Four years old. Let that sink in. That’s my legacy—an overgrown toddler outworking grown men. If that doesn’t make you question things, I don’t know what will.

This might be where it all ends for me, too. If a freak piler accident doesn’t take me out first, I’ll probably die of shock at seeing no line at the Argyle piler.

That’s the poetic end farmers get, right? Tipping over from the luxury of limited wait times.

But no room for melodrama, not this year. This beet crop is a different beast. These beets are juiced, like they’ve been training in some secret farm gym, bulking up all season.

Every load feels like a middle finger from the earth itself, reminding us that this year, there’s no easy way out.

No shortcuts.

Just grind, grit, and the occasional mental breakdown.

I’ve spent my life getting ready for moments like this, but nothing—and I mean nothing—prepares you for a harvest where the nights bleed into days, where time folds in on itself, and where the only constant is the sound of your mind cracking, like an old tractor axle giving way.

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My Dad’s Voice in My Head

It’s 2 p.m., and you’re hauling that final load of the day. Then—bam—the piler shuts down. It’s like the universe is playing some wicked joke, sending you a never-ending line of trucks to torment you.

It’s not just a physical test—it’s a mental game. One I’ve been playing since Moby Dick was a minnow.

The Kuznia boys? We were built for this, born into it. From the moment we could stand, we’ve been grinding. It’s like something is wired deep into our DNA—if you stop, you lose.

My dad, my uncle David—hell, even the family dog—probably outworked most people in town.

In his trucking days, Dad used to run with a guy named Alex. One night, they stopped at a rest area for a quick nap before hitting the road again. Alex hadn’t even gotten his shoes off when Dad was banging on the sleeper door:

“Alex, let’s gooooo.”

“Kuz, I haven’t even got my shoes off!”

“Sounds like you wasted your seven minutes. All a guy really needs. Now let’s go.”

“Fuckin’ eh, Kuz.”

Seven minutes. That’s all the guy needed. That kind of work ethic isn’t right.

Maybe that’s where I get it—the never-stop mentality woven into our family’s DNA. It’s not just hard work—it’s a tradition.

It’s insanity.

If I sit still for three minutes, I feel like a useless sack of dirt, like I should just start walking to the welfare office if I’m going to sit around like this.

Good grief, what am I, some kind of bum?

Dad still brags about me running the piler better than anyone else as if it’s the family crest. A badge of honor we’ve passed down year after year. And here I am, forty years later, fighting the same battle, with the ghost of harvests past breathing down my neck, reminding me of the weight I carry.

But it’s not just about sugar beets. It’s about blood, sweat, and history.

Farming doesn’t just shape you—it consumes you. It digs in, claws under your skin, and drags you along.

Doesn’t matter if you’re ready for it.

Even when my bones scream for me to stop, I can’t. I won’t. If there’s farming to do, I’ll be out there. That’s how we were raised.

Rest?

Sleep?

No. Those luxuries are for the weak.

Out here, it’s toil or die.

And if you stop? Someone else—some other lunatic—is going to outwork you.

In this family, we can’t let that happen.

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The Empty Satisfaction

The longer I stare at the piler, the more it dawns on me—this isn’t just about finishing the harvest. It’s about proving something.

To my dad. To myself. Maybe even to the world.

Growing up, you hear the stories—how your father was a farm legend, running tractors before middle school. It’s not just folklore; it’s a test for each new generation. Kuznia boys don’t back down from hard work.

But it’s more than a test.

It’s a paradox—breaking you down even as it builds you up.

That contradiction haunts you at 3 a.m. when the truck feels more like a coffin than a machine. Yet, even then, something inside keeps pushing. Why?

Because it’s not just the work that lingers—it’s the sense that you’re part of something larger. The legacy. The history. The bloodline.

And let’s be honest—the Kuznia boys? We don’t quit. Not because we can’t but because we don’t know how. It’s ingrained in us.

Maybe that’s why I feel this strange, empty satisfaction at the end of every harvest. You finish, and for a moment, you think, "Is that it?"

You bring in the last load, shut off the truck, and it’s over. No applause. No grand finale. Just the quiet of a field that will soon be dormant.

But there’s no real relief. It's just a void that settles in once the adrenaline fades. It’s the same every year—like there’s something more to be done, even when it’s all over. And maybe that’s the real challenge: Can you live with the emptiness?

Can you accept that no matter how much you push or how many loads you haul, there will always be that void staring back at you?

But that’s the thing. That emptiness—it’s not failure. It’s the echo of all the work you’ve done, all the grit you’ve given, ringing back at you. It’s the proof that you were here, that you endured.

And maybe, just maybe, when the dust settles, that’s all that matters.

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Keep the Ride Rolling

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There’s more madness on the horizon, so let’s keep this wild ride going together. You reading this keeps the wheels turning, so if you feel what I’m putting out, grease the damn wheel.

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Bye for now.