“My wife’s dad used to farm, so I know exactly what you mean.”

His words echoed in my ears while snapshots flashed before my eyes.

I’m in a dusty grain bin “helping” Grandpa. He leans on a push broom watching the sweep auger and I play with a grain scoop that’s taller than me. The bushels fall one by one from the auger into a straight truck. Grandma’s Grand Marquis pulls into the yard. She rolls down the window and hands us cans of ice cold Pepsi and fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies.

The auctioneer drops the gavel and I lead my first 4-H steer out of the ring. I remove his halter for the last time and two men chase him up the loading chute. Through the side of the trailer, I see his black and white speckled face and the notch on his nose formed by the rope halter. A lump grows in my throat and I sit alone in my dad’s pick up truck with tears streaming down my face.

It’s years before I would ever drive a car, but my hands grip the steering wheel of John Deere 4640. Dad is describing how to gauge the distance between the front tire and the already tilled ground on my right. I’m supposed to visualize where the tire is heading, without staring directly at the tractor tire. I have no idea what he is talking about as evidenced by the crooked black path drawn in the corn stalks behind me.

A cow purposefully licks her brand new baby. He fights to stand, stimulated by her strong rough tongue. His back legs lift his butt up in the air and then he falls over. One leg at a time he finally finds balance. The cow noses and licks encouragement into his backside as the bull calf finds milk for the first time. His tail wags and his whole body shivers with warmth.

The Deere tractor crawls forward, the chain tightens, and the Kenworth hauling a loaded grain trailer finally finds some traction. The two engine train climbs out of the muddy field. Changing angles allow slack in the chain followed by sudden tension. With a loud pop, the chain curls through the air like a Garter snake discharged by a riding lawn mower.

I walk into the barn and notice a trail in the dirt. It starts in the corner pen, goes under a gate, around the squeeze chute, and out the barn door. Not every baby calf lives long enough to earn an ear tag. And the shallow furrow signals the end of a fourteen year-old cow’s career. Even though she’s slow and tired, it will be tough to watch her walk onto the trailer.

There are warm spring rains, sticky summer nights, and crisp harvest mornings. Dark brown mud splattered on quarter panels and lawns painted white with gravel road dust. There are grocery sacks of sweet corn and ice cream buckets of green beans.

There are fog days, dog days, and skunks that just won’t flee. We have driveways called lanes, sideways rains, and a great white combine we hope to never see.

There are times you want to liquidate and minimum wage sounds like a raise, followed by days you wouldn’t leave the home place for ten million dollars.

The man’s words echoed again, “my wife’s dad used to farm, so I know exactly what you mean.”

Pardon me for not believing him.