The Underdog Battle: Small-Town Services vs. Big Money
FFT # 48
We were dead in the water—the combine sat lifeless in the field, the smell of chaff and hot oil hanging over the August night like a curse.
A slashed hydraulic hose bathed the front of the machine while we sat stranded, covered in oil and grease, cursing the universe.
Pert near made it a day without getting filthy.
Shit.
I grabbed the phone and dialed the nearest Deere joint.
The Corporate Runaround
What followed was a descent into madness—navigating the seven circles of corporate voicemail hell, pressing buttons that led nowhere, and waiting on hold as my sanity dripped away like the hydraulic fluid pooling beneath the combine.
When I finally got through, the voice on the other end was like a robot fresh out of a coma—dry, mechanical, and about as warm as dead fish on ice.
The man seemed more interested in squeezing $25 out of us for a service call than in mending our machine. It was like talking to a goddamn banker in the depths of the Great Depression—nothing but a human calculator, all numbers and no humanity, utterly detached from the urgency of our situation.
After much cajoling, I convinced him to check if they even had the part. More hold music. More wasted time. And then the final blow: they didn’t have the damn thing in stock—all that agony for nothing.
We were still stuck, still bleeding time, and still fucked.
Profit Over People
Welcome to farming in the 2020s—a relentless grind where every interaction is reduced to a transaction, every problem comes with a price tag, and the bottom line is the only thing that counts.
And the parts?
They might as well be mythical relics, hidden away in those dusty racks behind the counter while corporate bigwigs line their pockets and perfect their evil laughs from their lakeside mansions.
Look, we get it, Mr. Rockefeller—businesses need to turn a profit, but does it all have to feel like one big, greasy shakedown?
Small-Town Superheroes
That’s when I remembered Uncle Bob and his small-town service shop. We called him at a quarter to eight, half expecting him to let the phone ring or to answer with a grumble about the late hour.
But no—Bob was out of his easy chair in a flash. He bolted out the door still wearing his slippers (ironically embroidered with 'off' on the right foot and 'duty' on the left), like some blue-collar superhero ready to save the day.
No service fee, no corporate red tape, no pressing three and holding for fourteen minutes with Jay Ferguson’s Thunder Island on repeat—just a man with grease under his nails and a grin on his face, ready to save the day.
My uncle met me at the station and built a new hydraulic hose faster than I could microwave a bag of popcorn.
Twenty minutes later, after a high-speed burn back to the field, we were turn-key again—back in the battle, thanks to Bob’s no-bullshit, get-it-done attitude.
Small-Town Epiphany
Sheri Oteri was in the field that night, snapping photos for an upcoming magazine article on your humble pamphlet writer. A shameless teaser, I know—let’s be honest, I’m a bit of a narcissist who enjoys the spotlight.
Lucky for Sheri, she got her first taste of a top-speed parts run, and what she saw blew her city-slicked mind. Watching Uncle Bob crimp the fittings, a sense of connectedness overcame her she’d never felt before.
Apparently, emergency hydraulic hose repairs aren’t the norm on a Tuesday night in Winnipeg.
At first, I dismissed Sheri Oteri’s epiphany as the kind of thing hippies like Sheri concoct over brunch with avocado toast and craft beer.
Still, as the dust settled and the sun sank low while we raced back to revive the combine, it hit me—she wasn’t just high on flower power; she was onto something.
In just five minutes at a small-town gas station stocked with a Gates hydraulic hose crimper and a complete set of fittings, that small town had sunk its charming teeth deep into Sheri’s soul.
A Greener Grass?
I used to think the grass was greener elsewhere—in California, Arizona, and Siberia, but not in my small town.
But after living in those places (well, not Siberia, but I did live in Fargo for a spell, so close enough), I learned nothing compares to the straightforward, honest service you find here.
In just five minutes, Sheri Oteri grasped what most people in these parts take for granted.
The service here isn’t just about fixing what’s broken; it’s about helping your neighbor, about being part of something bigger than yourself.
Uncle Bob didn’t do it for the money; he did it because that’s what you do in a place where everyone knows your name, where the lines between business and friendship blur into one hazy, grease-streaked continuum.
Small towns have a kind of service that’s damn near extinct—something more like a neighbor lending a hand than a mere transaction. It’s unrushed, familiar, and rooted in a sense of community that’s slowly being bulldozed by the relentless march of corporate productivity.
When Service Becomes Soulless
As the world marches on, driven by the cold logic of technology and bottom lines, the warmth of small-town service is fading, replaced by the sterile, soulless efficiency of corporate chains.
Deere dealerships and Amazon might have everything you need, but good luck getting someone to help you after 5 p.m. without charging extra or even remembering your name.
In small towns, the guy who fixes your tractor is the same one you’ll share a drink with at the local bar. He knows you. He knows your family, your history, your struggles. He’s the one who’ll go the extra mile because you’re not just another customer—you’re a neighbor, a friend, a nephew.
No big company can replicate that, no matter how many algorithms they throw at the problem.
Small Town Soul Erosion
As agriculture becomes more dependent on technology and efficiency, the very essence of small-town service is under siege.
The local hardware store that’s been around for ages can’t compete with the pricing and selection of a Lowe’s or Home Depot, even if they are an hour’s drive away.
The small, family-owned equipment dealer is all but dead.
The new motto is simple: consolidate and expand—grow the empire and to hell with the little guy.
It’s as if we’ve circled back to the same place after a century of so-called progress.
Instead of Standard Oil and the railroads, Apple and the tech giants are the new puppeteers pulling the strings.
The Silicon Valley overlords know more about us than we know about ourselves, and we drift through life like extras in a Pink Floyd video, unaware that we’re being played. They own us, dictate our thoughts, and their algorithms keep us obsessing over what we don’t have.
This relentless comparison is twisting our minds, convincing us we’re not good enough unless we’re chasing some unattainable ideal, leaving us empty and miserable.
Cartels in tech and agriculture have us bowing to the gods of corporate greed. They gouge us with arbitrary prices, draining our small towns of talent and deepening the brain drain eroding our already crumbling communities—all while preaching that if we work hard enough and follow our passion, we too can be wealthy like them.
A Final Reflection on the Road Ahead
The old ways are fading, and with them, we’re losing the heart of our communities. This decline isn’t just a matter of nostalgia; it has real implications for the agricultural community.
When small-town businesses close, it’s not just a loss of convenience—it’s a loss of knowledge, relationships, and trust built over generations. The new John Deere dealer might have all the latest gadgets, but they don’t know your family, history, or struggles like the local guy.
In small towns, service isn’t just about getting the job done; it’s about being there when it matters most. It’s about understanding that farming isn’t just a business—it’s a way of life. And that’s something you can’t put a price on.
A deep sadness takes hold as I reflect on the small towns I’ve known and the service they provided.
I grieve for the farmer clinging to his lifeblood as his small town drains away, watching people and resources slip through his fingers.
My heart aches for the kids in shrinking classrooms, with fewer friends to make and connections to build. I mourn the loss of a place that once felt like home, now slipping into the shadows, riddled with fentanyl, methamphetamine, and a suicide rate twice the national average.
These places are disappearing, replaced by a world that values speed over relationships and efficiency over care. But as long as people remember what small-town service means, there’s hope it won’t be lost entirely.
As the sun sets on these small towns, casting long shadows over empty streets and closed shopfronts, one can't help but wonder if this is indeed the end or just a long winter before the spring.
How do we turn the tide and reinvigorate these places that once pulsed with life and community? That’s a story for another day—perhaps one to be told by someone wiser and without the kind of cynicism that only comes after witnessing forty years of a slow-motion small-town implosion.
So here’s to the small towns and the people who keep them going, even when the odds seem insurmountable.
Ultimately, small towns and their people remind us what truly matters—community, connection, and a helping hand when needed.
May we never forget the value of a friendly face and the kind of service that can only come from a place that feels like home. Let’s hope we can keep that spirit alive for generations, no matter how the world changes.
This is absolutely right on. Wow! Your writing directly reaches my heart! Especially a ripped hydraulic hose. Thank you for your full on emotional explosion. Brought back a lot of memories and reminded me I’m still fighting the good fight.