(Talk of the Town photo provided) The photo above shows Kelley's kitchen circa 1930s when it was considered the first modern kitchen in Whitley County. The photo now hangs on the wall inside the Whitley County 4-H Center building.

By Kelley Sheiss

One of my favorite songs right now is “The House That Built Me” by Miranda Lambert.  It reminds me of the house where I spent 18 years of my life, thinking of how fortunate I did not have to move multiple times like my siblings.   Except for a one year stint in Woolrich, PA as a toddler, my growing years were in Lancaster County, PA.    At the ripe age of five, we moved into a brand new home, custom built from plans my mom had ordered from a magazine.   It was the only time I would (and probably every will) live in a brand new home.   One sidebar here:   my parents let me pick out the décor of my bedroom, and at five years old the decision was easy – purple carpet,

purple wallpaper, purple curtains and a purple bed.   Let this be a lesson to all parents that allowing your kindergartener to make such decisions can greatly affect the resale value of your home.  Although our home was a distant cry from an old farmhouse, our family would certainly give it character over the years.   This past April, I had the chance to drive Dillon by my childhood home.   To my disappointment, the owners had painted it white and blue, completely changing its appearance.   Worse yet, the meticulous landscaping my dad had worked on for many hours over the years had been replaced by an overgrown jungle.   Unlike the song I so enjoy on the radio, I had no desire to enter and capture memories.   The memories and character that made that house a home are fondly carried with me today.  I couldn’t help but recall Dad’s gorgeous azalea bushes, the times we forced an entirely too big Christmas tree into the living room, or the many beloved pets who were tucked in the ground up back beneath a flowering dogwood tree.   Those were just a few of the things that gave that house character.  
Maybe that is why since leaving that house I have chosen older residences that possess a delightful sense of character within their walls.   First there was the old brick row house in Elizabethtown.    The upside was living near the Mars chocolate factory, so I always had a naturally sweet air freshener just outside my door.  The downside was old windows that allowed pigeons access to my residence on one occasion.   The problem was compounded when the maintenance man hired by the landlord to fix said windows had an affinity for leaving the job with an inventory of the tenant’s underwear.   Needless to say, I moved shortly thereafter, heading west to Chicago.   Making the decision where to live in the windy city was easy.  I bypassed the new high-rise studio with a view of the lake and a trendy loft in Wrigleyville to settle in an older apartment building on North Dearborn that was a hotel during the Great Depression.  It helped that I could walk to work, but I also loved the old elevator, the large windows, detailed woodwork and the hiss of the old-style heater in the kitchen.  It made perfect sense to me that as I prepared to move to Indiana, I became fixated on one particular “old” farmhouse.  From the outside, I envisioned it had loads of character.  The one thing I loved most about the house would also become one of its most vexing aspects:  the style of the roof.   The only problem was at the time the house wasn’t for sale.
Visit after visit to Indiana, Donnie would ask “do you want to build a house or what?”   And every time we drove past the old Bennett place I would say “nope, I want to live there.”   He would look at me exasperated and respond “it’s not for sale!”   Call it fate, luck or divine intervention, but one day the people living in the house decided to move to South Dakota.   The owners saw my brother-in-law one day and asked if he knew anyone that was interested in the property.   Within a month, Donnie and I were doing a walk-through and working with the bank to prepare loan documents.   The first time we walked through the house, everything I dreamed about the character of the house was true.  Aside from the owner’s affinity for pink, I was in awe of the high ceilings, woodwork and big windows.  To be quite honest, I remember very few other details.  My mind was clouded with “I’m going to live in this house!”  
Obviously, I didn’t notice the cracks, unfinished rooms, the fact that few windows would open or the lack of bathing accommodations and closets upstairs.   But hey, that was part of the character of an old farmhouse, right?  Imagine my surprise one day when I came upon a photo at the Whitley County Extension Office of my kitchen!   The older photo had a label on the back noting “modern farm kitchen with built-in sink, 1940   .”   Everything is exactly the same, except the old lady standing by the sink (Mrs. Tom Hefty) is gone as is the window.   We had to replace it shortly after moving in as snow would drift in on the inside ledge during the winter months.    This same picture hangs in the west room of the 4-H Center, so while you’re at the fair you can catch a glimpse of my kitchen.  I’ve often vowed to send this photo, along with a current one showing the similarities, to some makeover show in hopes of winning my dream Mediterranean-style kitchen, but that might take away some of the “character” of the room.   
As I said earlier, the one aspect that endeared me to the house was the “witch’s hat,” an architectural design on the quaint slate roof.   This is the part where you watch what you wish for.   The darling tower/peak/witch’s hat, combined with a 100-year old slate roof that’s full of…character…can prove to be quite stressful in times of excessive rainfall.  When I hear “mom, my ceiling is leaking again” I curse my affinity for old farmhouses with “character” and pray silently that the crew from Extreme Makeover will knock on my door.
There’s a variety of other attributes that contribute to the character of an old farmhouse.  Consider just a few:
-A close connection to the Biblical occurrence of plagues.  Think Asian Lady Beetles, spiders, flies that put the Amityville Horror to shame, and in the case of this year, ants.  Little tiny ants that defy any natural or man made eradication remedy.
-The fact that the well and septic system are close friends and neighbors.
-Despite central air, a lack of duct work to the second story results in an icebox downstairs and a sauna in the bedrooms
-Carpet that has seen generations…and generations…and generations walk over it (but hey, when you live on a farm, plush, new white carpet is not exactly the norm)
-The signature “paint over wallpaper” that adds a delightful retro touch
-Cracks in the walls or ceilings that substitute for viewing constellations in the night sky
While it’s sometimes easy to be critical of the character, I much more enjoy discovering the joy in it.   For example:
-This is the house where we will proudly raise our son
-It is a kitchen where we sit and eat a meal together almost every night
-There are really high ceilings so Donnie rarely hits his head (unless I hang giant Christmas ornaments from the doorway during the holidays, which I have learned not to do)
-Inside the big parlor window (that now opens) is a perfect spot for our Christmas tree
-The rooms in this house have hosted many family and friends
-Each and every room has been given our own unique touch
Yes, despite the repairs, needed improvements and my desire for a new kitchen, I absolutely love my old farmhouse.   For those of you older residents who may have been invited to this home for a garden club gathering, the Tiffany chandelier is gone.  I have been asked this question many times by older residents, and it was gone way before my time here.   We are also working diligently to return the yard and landscaping to its original beauty after being overtaken by weeds and assorted brush.  Several people have told me the flowers grown in this yard were once a showcase of the area.   I always like to think the outside of your house is an invitation to the inside.
Most importantly, our house is a home.   To some people, a house is merely four walls, a roof and a place to sleep at night.  While there are times I dream of a new home, I know they have problems, too, and might the lack the 100 + year old character this house possesses.   No, I don’t think I’ll be yelling “move that bus!” anytime soon.  There are generations of stories in the walls of this house, and we are happily adding to them.  That’s when I remember this “old farmhouse” is also our home.

Kelley Sheiss and her husband, Donnie, are the proud parents of a son, Dillon, and operate a family farm in Etna Troy Township. She is the executive director of Leadership Whitley County and is an active Whitley County 4-H volunteer.

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By Kelley Sheiss

I have to admit I’ve had a bit of a writer’s block lately.   It’s not so much there aren’t things I could write about (and some I probably shouldn’t), but life has been busy this spring and I’ve been challenged with composing my thoughts and developing some thicker skin.  I’m a sensitive person by nature, which does not fair well in the Sheiss family or the occupation of agriculture.    Lately, my frustration has risen with sentiments from various sources focusing on the negatives of meat and modern livestock production practices.  I find it ironic that when modern technology, modern

medicine, modern housing, modern appliances and modern education is mentioned, the general population finds it appealing.     So how did modern agriculture become such a villain?    I was at a lack of “musings” until I was inspired recently by local business owner Stan Ziherl of Five Star Distributing.   The man has a passion for the business of beer.    Stan could easily let the naysayers of barley pop get him down, but that is definitely not the case.   Listening to him scroll through the history of beer and detailing its importance to the economy, I couldn’t help but be inspired to sit and type.   My passion is agriculture and more specifically livestock and meat.   Summer is just around the corner, and for many people it means grilling time is here.  Although we grill year round, the warm weather brings a fever with the gas tank and grates.  I’m sure Stan would appreciate that few things go better with a steak or pork chop hot off the grill than a fresh, cold beer.   
Now I have to provide a disclaimer.   I’m not a physician, dietitian or professor; I’m a livestock producer.   Most of the facts presented in this column have been gleaned from reputable sources and I will be glad to make note of it when applicable.  The rest of the text is simply my opinion, or musings.   Although I may have thin skin, I’ve never been one to shy away from sharing my opinions!   If you’re a vegetarian or opposed to modern livestock production practices or even concerned with the health aspects of grilling, then I suggest you click on another link of this website right now.   It’s time to talk grilling.   Grilling with delicious, nutritious, corn-fed, American produced beef and pork.   So let’s get started.
First, there’s deciding what cut of meat to buy.      There’s also deciding where to buy it.   I’m all for the “buy local” initiative.   As a vendor at our local farmer’s market, there’s nothing more satisfying to me and Dillon than when someone heads home with a purchase of our local produce.  It’s also rewarding when we can deliver a hog to Krider’s for someone to enjoy.     Being a large, modern pork producer certainly does not limit us from providing our local residents quality, tasteful pork if they choose to purchase it this way.    Logistically, most consumers head to the store or local butcher for smaller portions.   I’ll readily admit that a vast majority of our meat purchases come from local retailers.     We do purchase a beef animal on a regular basis and have it processed to our specifications, but other than the occasional hog we have made for sausage, I am a consumer at the meat case just as many of you are, too.    There are places I prefer to buy my meat, while there are places I do not.   You can’t beat Krider’s pork burgers and stuffed sausage, and I regularly find excuses to drive to South Whitley to purchase Heyerly’s gourmet burgers and steaks.   I love fresh meat cases, which both locations have, relishing the opportunity to pick out my very own cut and relive the days of my youth when mom and I would go to the locally owned Mennonite store and select our dinner entree.     I frequent other larger retailers, too, but my selection process is finicky at best.    Pork should be a medium to darker pink (sometimes even light red on the rib end) in color, and beef should possess some marbling with a preferred grade of Choice.   Prime beef is usually reserved for the restaurant trade, while select beef, although more affordable, deems some pretty heavy marinating to obtain a rewarding flavor.      
So what about nutrition when selecting your main entrée?  I am a firm believer that everything in moderation is okay, and today’s modern beef and pork can certainly fit into a healthy diet.   It’s refreshing to know there are 29 cuts of beef that meet the government labeling guidelines for lean (www.beefitswhatsfordinner.com/leanbeef) and six pork cuts that meet the same guidelines, with less than 10 grams of fat per serving (www.theotherwhitemeat.com/nutritionalinfo).    When shopping for either commodity, consider cuts from the loin and/or round – like pork chops, pork roast, sirloin tip steak, round steak, tri-tip or tenderloin.      Remember, you can always support local producers by purchasing animals directly from them and having the processing done locally.    Also know that when you purchase meat at a grocery store, you are very likely supporting a family farm somewhere across the country.   Most of our pork ends up in a variety of grocery stores across the Midwest, so I certainly encourage you to pick up a pack of chops or ribs on your next shopping trip!
Next is preparation.    While I’m the primary griller in the household, I’m certainly not the best (remember that farm wives can’t cook thing?).  Although my husband can’t boil water, he can grill a steak to perfection.  I think grilling is in a man’s DNA.   Something about the caveman instinct, bringing home the meat and cooking it over the fire.   Regardless of who is at the helm of the coals, we have a few favorite grilling choices.  There’s beef steaks (of course) and sirloin cubes for delicious kabobs complete with garden fresh vegetables.   On the pork side, pork burgers are a staple for us in the summer, and we also enjoy pork ribs slow-cooked in the crock pot all day and finished on the grill with a slather of Sweet Baby Ray’s.     Occasionally, a mini hog roast is on the menu, consisting of a pork shoulder roast (often called a butt roast), seasoned and wrapped in tin foil, cooked on the grates at a low temperature for 2 to 3 hours.
Another perfect marriage on the grill is pairing up your meat with a marinade.   There are a variety of possible combinations, but my all time favorite mixes soy sauce, brown sugar, Worcestershire sauce, vinegar, garlic and a touch of honey.   Marinade overnight, and always remember to discard any unused marinade.   
Shopping for meat, or other items on the perimeter of the grocery store, can sometimes be a confusing course in labels and claims.   This is where more of my musings – or should I say opinions – come in, so the following comments are strictly my own reflections.    First, the term burger should strictly be reserved for the king and prince of commodities:  beef and pork.   Veggie and burger just don’t go together.   Maybe veggie patty, veggie disc or even veggie croquet.   Leave the burgers to those that deserve it.    If you are subject to eat a veggie disc, top it with bacon.   Bacon makes everything better.   Next, in honor of my great dairy farm friends, the term milk should be used for products that come from an animal with teats.   I have never seen a soybean plant with udders or almond farmers getting up early in the morning to milk their trees.   How about juice, drink or beverage?  Milk is from cows, and I love milk.   Incidentally, there are some thoughts that girls mature earlier due to eating too much meat or drinking too much milk.   I have enjoyed both commodities all of my life and let me tell you I was one of the latest bloomers around.  As a matter of fact, I’m still waiting for some things to bloom.
Finally, I’m a bit vexed with the words natural, hormone free and organic.     Natural can be interpreted many different ways.   According to a fact sheet funded by the beef check-off, by government definition, most beef is natural.   Meat also naturally contains hormones (such as estrogen), as does some vegetables (such as broccoli).   Organic is a term used with wild abandon these days.  I have no problem with the term, provided it is accurate.  For me, that means having the USDA certified organic label.   Strict standards are in place for beef and pork to be eligible.   I admit I have a few organic items in my kitchen at this moment.   There’s organic oatmeal and organic baby greens.   They do have the USDA label and I do pay more for them.   It’s not because they are organic, however.  It’s because of the taste.  They’re good.  If I could find something that I liked just as well that was commercially produced and was cheaper, you can bet I’d buy it.   I recently bought some crackers that had the label 75% organic.    So I guess that made them kind of organic, right?  I strongly feel we do consumers a disservice when we mislead with terminology.   Often, I think instead of worrying so much about labels we should just focus on sitting down together as a family and enjoying a home-cooked (in this case home-grilled) meal.
 Get to know your local producers, ask your meat manager questions and make informed decisions based on fact, not emotion.     Hopefully I give you a sneak peek in the life of a livestock producer occasionally through this column.    All the meat we produce is grain-fed, the most widely produced type of beef and pork in the United States.   Every acre of corn we grow is directly fed to our hogs, and we take pride in the fact that we actually produce the grain we feed to our animals.  Incidentally, although the corn kernel is a grain, the corn plant is actually a grass.   While some may find criticism with the term modern agriculture, I find extreme pride.  I recently read an online article published by a physician who felt as a society we needed to go back to everyone having their own garden (which is great), a chicken or two and maybe a cow or pig in order to produce their own food.   It made me think of one of my favorite childhood shows, Little House on the Prairie.    I don’t know this doctor, but his idea is great if he doesn’t mind going back to treating smallpox or receiving payment in the form of a chunk of butter or a rooster, just like the “good old days.”    For those of you pundits who may be reading, I don’t wear blinders.  I am quite aware of the value of locally produced foods or alternative growing methods.   Each year, Dillon and I labor diligently with a small produce business, fighting the bugs, weeds and other elements as naturally as possible.  It has been an incredible learning experience for him.   We are blessed to be able to experience agriculture on the large and small side of the equation.
If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m passionate about what we do here at Three “D” and at Dillon’s Farm Fresh Produce/The Jack Patch.   One of our Leadership Whitley County trainers talks about personal mission and passion, challenging individuals to identify one thing for which they would die.  Every year, my answer is family.  If I had to make a second choice, it would be our farm.   The two – family and farm – go hand in hand.  For years I stood in grocery stores and various events sampling beef, veal and pork, talking to consumers, other producers and even activists about our product.    Through this process, my dedication to this industry grew and as I made my home on a family farm in Indiana, it quickly became my passion.   Often it is hard to contain my enthusiasm for the subject, or in some cases, my defense of our livelihood.  
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s grilling season…and I’m hungry!

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(Talk of the Town photos provided)

By Kelley Sheiss

The term "cowgirl" might conjure up visions of the old west, rodeo queens and performances of vintage country music singers, and while destinations in this country are home to such traditional cowgirls, there's another kind of "cow" girl.    She's right here in Indiana and as far as Pennsylvania, Iowa, Tennessee and parts in between.   Although she may not be readily identifiable by her every day appearance, her definition is simple - she loves cows.

I'm not sure when I officially became one of these non-traditional "cow" girls.  I think it started back in college when we would halter break calves for the Little International, a livestock show for the ag students.   Of course, my passion for all things bovine grew when I was crowned the Pennsylvania Cattleman's Queen back in 1991.  Yes, even beef has royalty, but luckily my pageant phase was short-lived.  Someone is probably saying "wait, I thought you were a pig girl?" (and there are others who are still laughing at the fact that I was a beef queen).   "Pig" girl doesn't have near the verbal appeal as "cow" girl, but you're correct.  Our primary livelihood on this farm is pigs and I thoroughly enjoy them, but the cows are truly near and dear to my heart.    Very few, if any of the cows had names until I arrived on the scene.    There's even more names to remember now that Dillon has started christening them with titles.

We've got Boo-Boo, Brownie, Blaze and Bam-Bam.Frosty, Jamocha, Cappucino and Google. Patches, Pebbles, Dr. Pepper (our herd bull) and more.   Last year we trended towards candy and coffee drinks.  This year, Dillon and I have decided to go with cartoon names.   While some remain unnamed, we already have Speedy, Daphne, Sandy Cheeks, Tweety, Alex, Minnie and Popeye.    Each one has their own distinct personality, and there are few days that go by when I don't make time to walk through the barnyard, visiting with each one and providing an occasional scratch on the neck or belly rub to those who revel in the attention.    This is one "cow" girl who can't wait for summer, when I can walk back the lane and watch the moms and babies scattered throughout the pasture.    In the summer evenings, especially after a cool rain, you'll find the little ones running wildly around, sounding off with little snorts and trying out their own special dance moves.

If it's not obvious by now, most "cow" girls I know would probably prefer to spend more of their time with cows than with people.      This time of year there are a few of us who will fret through the night at the thought of an impending delivery; we'll stop by the barn multiple times  a day to check on new arrivals, and I will personally drive my  husband nuts as I ask endless questions and impose my opinions on calf care.   For those of us that have endured the delivery of a child, we may actually strain and wince as we help a mom deliver her calf.    Within an hour, we can go from being perfectly clean, in our pjs and ready for bed to being covered in afterbirth and all the other "stuff" that comes with it.   There's nothing quite like being part of the successful delivery of a calf, or watching secretly from a corner as a mother takes care of the duty all on her own.    When we lose a baby, which can and does happen, it is unfortunate.   The mood we feel is a combination of frustration, anger, despair and sorrow.   Just as there is a wonderful feeling of watching a newborn calf try out their wobbly legs for the first time as they are taken care of by their mom, there is also an empty feeling of helplessness as one dies in your lap.

Recently, our friends called to say they had a heifer in labor and she needed some help.  It was 8:45 p.m. and American Idol was in progress.   We bid farewell to Simon and loaded up in the truck with the necessary equipment.  Dillon was thrilled his bedtime was delayed significantly, and he always enjoys observing the delivery process.  Since Donnie's brother and dad weren't around, there was a lot less yelling and Dillon and I were actually able to help out this time.    As Donnie worked the equipment to pull the calf, he had Dillon hold the cow's tail.    As she started to push, Donnie says to me quite nonchalantly:  "get your gloves off and stick your hands up there. "  Ah, terms of endearment from my farmer husband.  He wanted me to help guide the head out.   I didn't think twice, but as my hands made their way up the birth canal of a cow, I had a fleeting appreciation for ob/gyn doctors.   Maternal liquid and other "stuff" (if you haven't figured out what stuff is by now, it's a nice term for poop!)  oozed down my arms.  I then smiled and thought "if my parents and all those snobby kids I went to high school with could see me now!"   As the head came out, I looked at Dillon as his eyes were fixed on the process.   It's times like these I tend to forget he's only eight,  and I can only hope he does not detail this event during community circle at school tomorrow.   I am thinking seventh grade health class will be a breeze for him.  While the calf had a heartbeat, he was not breathing.   Donnie had me do chest compressions while he blew air into his mouth.  It was bovine CPR.    The mom diligently called to her baby and licked him off with encouragement. After what seemed like an eternity, his eyes blinked, he shook his head and finally a little "moo" escaped his mouth.   When we were sure he was o.k., we headed back home.   Tessa, his owner, called the next morning to say he was doing well.   It was a great way to start the day.

A "cow" girl is as comfortable in a dress and heels as we are in overalls and muck boots.    We clean-up pretty well, but boy can we get dirty, too. We drive SUV's, mini-vans and compact cars, although we are most comfortable in a pick-up truck, gator, or ATV.   We have four parts to our wardrobe: casual clothes, dress or business clothes, barn clothes and goin' showin' clothes.  Our goin' showin' wardrobe typically consists of overpriced jeans (unless we stand in line at midnight on Thanksgiving for the buy one get one free sale), at least two pairs of boots, a bling belt (or two, or three) and a variety of chunky, funky jewelry.    While a few of us still manage to maintain finely manicured hands, I have opted for the low-maintenance, gently used look that tolerates rope halters, regular washing, bottle feedings and straw bedding.    After all, the cows don't mind what my hands look like, although I do fondly recall the days of regular manicures.  Now any color on my nails (well, more like under my nails) is usually some shade of brown!

In the late summer when calves are weaned and getting ready to be sold, this is one of the few times when we look forward to wrangling an animal that is a good 200 to 300 pounds heavier than us.    No tractors or donkeys here. The best way to halter break a calf is hang on and get 'em tied-up somewhere quick!   I am first in line to take hold of the smaller, tamer ones, but once one lets out a loud bawl, I'll gladly turn him or her over to the guys.

We can handle a cattle blower just as easy as a hair dryer, and the comb we use generally sticks out of our back pocket.    When you open our freezer, you'll find bags of colostrum nestled between the frozen jam and bags of mixed vegetables.  For you green hands, colostrum is the first milk a cow produces when a calf is born.  It contains important nutrients and antibodies that are vital to a calf's health.  If, for some reason, a calf is unable to nurse its mom in the first hours of life, human intervention is needed and we provide colostrum via a bottle.    Trying to milk a beef cow is like trying to litter box train a tiger, so we rely on our dairy farm neighbors to keep us supplied with colostrum.

We're poster gals for the "Beef. It's What's for Dinner" campaign and we're just as quick to show you a picture of our prize show animal as we are our child.  A vacation for a "cow" girl is Hoosier Beef Congress, Indiana State Fair, or, if we're lucky enough, Louisville or Denver.  At these shows, it is all things cattle.   We're masters of crock-pot cooking and taking advantage of the free drink coupons offered by the hotels where we stay. We can sleep on show boxes, sit for extended periods of time on a bucket and style the most striking tail switches for the show ring (while styling our own hair can be a challenge).   Although we'll rarely wake for our own beauty routine at 5 a.m., we will certainly rise at 3 or 4 a.m. to make sure cattle are washed, fed and ready for the show.  Unlike our western counterparts, we may not wear hats, ride horses or live on a big ranch, but we love our cows.   We also have another thing in common:  we love our cowboys!

As I drove to town for a meeting the other day (in my business clothes), I noticed something was all over the steering wheel of my SUV.    Often, my vehicle serves as back-up farm transportation, and I realized the last time I drove was when I was down at the other farm checking on the calves.   I had kept my gloves on when I drove home and realized I must have had some residual calf "stuff" on them, which was transferred to my steering wheel. I smiled as I grabbed a wet wipe, cleaned it up and thought  yup, I'm a "cow" girl.    Sometimes you just gotta take a little bit of the country to town with you.

Kelley Sheiss and her husband, Donnie, live on the family farm in Etna Troy Township. They have a son, Dillon. She is also the program director for Leadership Whitley County.

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I just love it when someone from the non-agriculture community uses a term that reminds me of farming.   Such was the case in December as I sat in yoga class and our instructor encouraged us to practice “cultivating gratitude.”    She encouraged us to appreciate everything we had; being grateful from within and sharing this appreciation with others. 

We’re fortunate here in our rural community to have a great yoga studio – Laughing Lotus – nestled in the top of a pole barn a few miles outside of Columbia City.    Farmers and yoga aren’t exactly a matching pair, but I have found few other workout venues that relieve stress as much as a good yoga class.    And lately, being part of a farm family has been a bit stressful. 

I have to say I was glad to see 2009 pass and welcome 2010 as a new (and hopefully prosperous) year.   No resolutions were made as the New Year arrived.  They’re too easy to be broken.  Instead, I’ve decided to take some yoga advice and be more thankful for things, in hopes of passing this appreciation on to others.     I was inspired by many friends on Facebook who, over the holidays, posted a variety of things they were thankful for on a daily basis.    During this time, we were in the midst of very long and temperamental harvest.    This was compounded by a dismal hog market over the past few years, and the “usual” farm afflictions:   repairs, break-downs and a to-do list that gets longer instead of shorter.   Despite these frustrations, I realized we were so fortunate to have our health, our jobs and our family.    Many others could not boast of such fortunes last year.   Some days, however, it’s easy to get caught up in the negative details life tosses our way.    To be quite honest, I had drifted away from helping on the farm during the fall months.    Taking on a second job to help supplement the family income, along with other responsibilities, put helping out around here on the back burner for me.   For a short time, it also made me forget why we do what we do.   

It is easy in agriculture to focus more on the bad than on the good – poor weather, fluctuating crop prices, moldy corn, unpredictable livestock futures, untimely disease, annoying animal rights activists, increasing expenses -  the list goes can on for some time.   I opted to defy the negatives, and for one day, focus on the good.   I was going to cultivate gratitude right here on this farm.     I informed my husband that I would be spending an entire day working with him so I could renew my appreciation for the little things in our livelihood.    My secret hope was that through my efforts, I would “sow the seeds” (again, gotta love those ag terms) of appreciation in myself, my hubby and possibly others.   

The odds were stacked against me from the start.  I selected one of the coldest days in January, compounded with a two-hour school delay.  Even better, it was market hog loading day.    With my father-in-law.   Ten minutes of doing just about anything with him is enough to cure someone of cultivating gratitude forever.   Despite this, I hustled Dillon on the bus and embarked on my day’s journey.   Here are a few of the things I took time to be grateful for, many of which are so precious because they can only be found right here on this farm.

Every morning, I am grateful for our farm dogs as they wag their tails in excitement to see us.  We brought home Riggs, our Blue Heeler, almost 13 years ago and he has proved to be an excellent “pig dog.”    Thanks to Gary Rider for sharing Blaze with us and to the idiot who dumped off Scooby last May…what were you thinking???   He is the most loving, adorable dog, even if he does like to eat shoes and gloves.

As we load hogs, I am grateful for Rex, the truck driver.    I don’t think there are many livestock haulers like him.   He could double for Santa and always has a smile on his face.   From the few times I have chatted with Rex, I know he loves three things:   his kids, his truck and Jesus.  We’re lucky to have him haul our hogs.

I’m grateful for hurdles (plastic boards we use to move hogs from place to place) as I try to push half a dozen 250-pound pigs down the walkway.    As they head on the truck, I’m thankful for all those people out there that eat pork.   Hey, I’m even thankful for vegetarians.   That means more meat for the rest of us.   Seriously, have you ever thought about the fact that farmers truly feed the world?   For that, I am grateful.

The morning proceeds and I am having a tough time trying to focus on appreciating the little things.   Cold weather and farming with family can sometimes make for testy attitudes in the morning, but I must focus.   What’s next?  Breeding…hmmmm.   Instead of focusing on the process, I think about the end result:  baby pigs.   I love baby pigs.  I love just about any baby animal.   There’s something about baby pigs that are irresistible.   So later on, I take a walk through the farrowing house.   Most of the sows are sleeping, as are the pigs.  Several pop their heads up to look at me, while a few others decide to indulge in a “milkshake.”   A few others are running around their pen, playing a form of reindeer games.    I’m even thankful for runts.  As we move nursery pigs before lunch, there is one little guy who just hasn’t caught up on the growth curve with his counterparts.   I pick him up and opt to let him ride down to the other barn in my lap.    Donnie offers to carry him to his pen.  I think I just cultivated a bit of gratitude with my spouse, thanks to little Wilbur.   By now my toes were frozen, so when we stopped at the main farm I opted to wait in the truck and warm up as Donnie bedded the trailer.    One of my favorite aspects of our farm is the cattle.  I’ll share more about them in another Musings, but at this particular moment as I watch them in the barnyard I am amused by Frosty, one of our Shorthorn cows.   She is giving herself a wonderful neck, side and butt rub against the hay rack, and she appears to be thoroughly enjoying every minute of it.   Even though the cows probably give us more expenses than income at times, I am so grateful for their presence here at Three “D”.  I’m also grateful for warm trucks and the fact that I’m not Amish.  I grew up around a large Amish community, and I have always thought it would be a neat experience to live with an Amish family for a week to appreciate a simpler life.    If I had a chance to do this, it would definitely be in the late spring or early fall; right now I’m far too grateful for the warmth and electricity modern conveniences provide.

Unlike many other occupations, farming allows Donnie and me to have lunch together on a regular basis.  Of course, I have to make it (he does help clean up), but I am grateful for this time when we can catch up on conversation or recount the day’s happenings.  I think it makes our relationship as a farm couple stronger, especially during trying times.    I must not be working on his nerves too bad because Donnie asks if I can help him with some things after lunch.    He may not realize this, but I often feel a strong sense of gratitude when he asks me to lend a helping hand around the farm.   After all, we’re in this together.

Our next task was repairing a few gates in the sow barn.   This required grinding metal and welding.   Now is the time to be thankful for safety glasses and welding helmets.  Not that I had any, but Donnie did.    When it came time for him to start the grinder on a gate, sparks flew in every direction.  So did I.  On this day, I’m grateful for quick reflexes.   As he lowers his helmet and prepares to weld, he says to me “turn away and you’ll be o.k.”    At this point, I guess I’m just grateful he told me to turn my head.  I remember a few years back when Donnie and his dad did not follow this practice and woke in the middle of the night with burning pupils.    As Donnie welded and I held the gate in place with my foot, I realized the day was wearing on, and I felt doubtful that I had enough “little things” to consider my day of cultivating gratitude a success.

As I turned away from the welding in process, I looked across the walkway at a pen of sows.   There, sitting like a dog, was a blue-butt sow (we call them blue-butts because most have a blue coloring on their rear).   Her ears were perked up, eyes shiny, and her belly was just beginning to show a hint of the pigs inside her.    I walked over to the pen and studied her.   She continued to sit and soon her head began to droop as she dozed off.   After a couple more head bobs, she perked up again and looked at me for some time.  I don’t know why, but on this day, she exemplified gratitude for me.   She made me smile.  She made me grateful for all that we had and for a moment she made me dream of possibilities.   All this from one momma pig.

We finished our repair work and drove up the road.   As I headed in the house and picked through the mail, I opened the furnace repair bill hesitantly.    While doing this, I happened to notice the washer was leaking all over the laundry room floor.  And, the cat puked a fur ball on the carpet.   I was back in reality, but it was o.k.     For one day, I took time to appreciate many things we take for granted or simply don’t notice here on the farm, and I think it made me a better person.    Thus, I’m going to continue working to cultivate gratitude in 2010, here on the farm and wherever I go.   Hopefully I’ll meet you along the way!

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