Tuesday, May 3, 2016

I meant to grab a refill for my checkbook and was sorry to find an empty check box. I don't remember taking out the last set of checks and don't remember any order form that should have been sent in.

Throughout Ohio there has been a great deal of discussion about increasing profits for local dairy farms.

Farmers and ranchers live in an ocean of numbers. And like the tide, the numbers - pigs-per-litter, gain-per-pound, bushels-per-acre, dollars-per-bushel - can't be held back; they keep coming and keep adding to our nation's food story.

Beautiful trills of birdsong drifted through the bathroom window. As I raised the mini-blind halfway, I expected to see, somewhere, a goldfinch.

I have a "first day on the job" speech I give all new editorial department employees. After I review the company's policies, plan the training schedule, and point out the restrooms, I climb on the soapbox.

I have to be perfectly honest. Since working as the herdsman at Misty Dale Dairy Farm in Highland County after graduating from the dairy science department at OSU, I have done a poor job of keeping up with the ever-changing genetic evaluations of our AI sires.

Fannie Flagg's new novel, Can't Wait To Get To Heaven, provides some good grins and a lot of food for thought.

Farmers and ranchers live in an ocean of numbers. And like the tide, the numbers - pigs-per-litter, gain-per-pound, bushels-per-acre, dollars-per-bushel - can't be held back; they keep coming and keep adding to our nation's food story.

It is not so much I mind having chosen a career path so vague as to rank somewhere below "illegal alien bus boy" in terms of status, but rather, I get no respect for doing it from my home that really rankles my soul.

I looked down at my lunch plate feeling pangs of guilt. Something was wrong with the picture. My plate held a hot dog in a soft, white bun leftover from my husband's company picnic.
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