The Fall of 2016
The moody sky hangs heavy. It cripples the spirits of farmers who
want to finish harvest. Under the shadow of fog desperation seems to loom
for all who live by the forecast of nothing but miserable weather. The
fruitless effort to stay happy doesn’t appeal to farmers. Crops out there — soaken
wet are waiting for sun. Nobody seems to want to do anything.
Green leaves are withered, wet and hang limp on trees — soggy and foggy.
“How many more days of this crap?”
“Where is this global warming that has been stuffed down our throats?”
“Why doesn’t anyone think it is a disaster but us?”
“Is it not as tragic as the Fort McMurray fires?”
“Does anyone think of a food bank for farmers?”
“When does a farmer ever be recognized for what he has done?”
This fall has been a challenge for us.
Roots run deep in family farms. Times of tractors, weeds, cinnamon
buns, hay bales, baby calves, chicken eggs, children, silage crews,
muddy roads, hail storms, new potatoes, fresh soil and the smell of rain.
Farmers don’t want sympathy. They only want to be appreciated. We
have been taken for granted for so long. A farmer’s wages are paid by
a beautiful sunrise, a peaceful sunset and a grateful heart when the