Saturday, September 5, 2026

Let me state, for the record, what has long been suspected and recently proven: I am not a trooper. Trooper.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

The glowing orange tops of two nearby maples are the first clear announcement that change, despite the day's drilling heat and shirt-soaking humidity, is coming.

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.

Change is inevitable. We don't have to like it, but we do have to deal with it. You probably want to brush off preparing any kind of emergency plan for your farm operation.