by Jerry Nelson
“Am I ever glad to see you!” I called out. “I think you just saved a marriage!” •
Visiting
There are things wrong with today’s world that I believe can be traced back to customs we have abandoned. For instance, we were a much more civilized society when men wore double-breasted suits and snap brim fedoras. Why did we ever give them up? Nothing lends a guy a sense of savoir faire like a well-fitted suit and a matching hat. If your suit is pinstriped, you might be mistaken for a mobster, but that could actually be quite helpful when you’re trying to get a good seat at a trendy restaurant.
And whatever happened to ladies wearing hats, especially the kind of headgear that looked as if it were the result of an accident involving a flower shop and a truckload of ostriches? Or even those elegantly understated pillbox toppers that were made popular by Jackie O? And when did the practice of ladies wearing elbow-length evening gloves fall out of favor? Why did ladies quit wearing those elegant and billowy skirts, the kind that contained more cloth than a parachute?
Our behavior would improve greatly if we went around dressed to the nines. The glow of our panache would light our way wherever we went.
Another custom that has fallen into disuse as of late is the fine art of visiting.
When I was a youngster, people would spontaneously drop in on one another for spontaneous visits. This could happen at any time, but most commonly occurred on Sunday afternoons. There was no such thing as calling ahead to make an appointment.
And no, this was not because telephones hadn’t yet been invented. We had even moved past the string-and-can technology and were using actual phones. But the fact we had to use party lines made our phone calls about as private as a radio broadcast.
Back then, people simply expected visitors, or “company,” as it was called. Very often our parents would pack us kids into the station wagon and go visit our grandparents.
At first blush, that sort of thing may have seemed like torture for a little boy. After all, my parents and grandparents tended to just sit around the living room, yakking and drinking coffee. What excitement is there in that?
But most of the time, some of my cousins and their parents would also be visiting. This meant there were playmates available for games of tag or hide-and-seek. For some reason, they never even tried to find me whenever I hid. I guess I was just too good of a hider.
At about midafternoon, the call of “Lunch!” would echo across the farmyard. Lunch was something you ate at the midpoint of both the forenoon and the afternoon.
We would tear off for the house and gather around a table that brimmed with cookies and pies and other such yummies. None of these goodies contained so much as a single calorie, as stuffing ourselves with them never caused us to gain a single ounce. After filling our bellies with these treats, we would dash back outside to tear around some more.
Speaking of treats, it was customary for a caller to bring along something tasty. This was not just polite; it also served as an excuse: “I just baked this huge batch of chocolate chip cookies and don’t know what to do with them all. Suppose you can help me eat them?” Dumb question.
But not having goodies with you didn’t mean you couldn’t pay a visit. Even empty-handed, you could still randomly stop at someone’s house and could depend upon being invited in for “coffee and a bite.” Even our neighborhood Norwegian bachelor farmers would extend this invitation, but you had to be careful there as their version of “a bite” might involve a lard sandwich.
After a visit, it was expected that the visitees would soon return the favor by calling upon the visitors. At our house, a supply of treats was kept on hand for such unexpected drop-ins. We kids constantly nibbled at these treats to keep tabs on their quality.
Our neighbors Al and Lorraine didn’t do much visiting, but let it be known that they thoroughly enjoyed having guests drop by.
Lorraine was a top-notch cook who produced mass quantities of marvelous munchies. Their farmhouse was as busy as Grand Central Terminal.
Once when my wife and I stopped in, Lorraine complained about how portly their sheltie, Brownie, had become. “I even bought her this special diet dog food!” said Lorraine, opening a cupboard that contained enough canned pooch food to feed a herd of shelties.
I glanced at Al, who had his hand under the table. Brownie, who was also under the table, was quietly eating the cookie he held. Al grinned and winked. I held my tongue and grinned back at Al as Lorraine groused about the utter worthlessness of that fancy diet dog food.
It soon became time for us to leave. As we got up to go, we reminded Al and Lorraine that it was now their turn to visit us. They promised that they would try to stop by sometime.
I then plopped my snap brim fedora onto my head and set it at a jaunty angle and helped my wife slip into her elegant, elbow-length gloves. •
The Four Seasons of Farming
When winter finally retreats for good and spring sweeps across the prairie, my farmer’s heart beats just a little faster.
As the land warms, it gives off an earthy aroma that makes me think of bread dough rising in a sun-drenched kitchen. The breeze caresses my ear, whispering sweetly of unlimited possibilities. I soon develop an irrepressible itch to drive my tractor out into my field and till the earth. Planting crops in the luscious black soil gives me a deep sense of joy, similar to what I felt that gentle June evening more than thirty years ago when my wife took me in her arms and murmured, “We’re going to have a baby.”
But spring tarries only a short while and soon gives way to summer. This change can be abrupt; within the span of a week, I have gone from worrying about a late frost to fretting about the scorching heat.
Life enters a phase of growing, nurturing. The days wax longer as the summer solstice approaches. The sight of fat baby calves and their mothers luxuriating in the deep grass makes me smile. A father robin warbles from a treetop, filling the air with his song of joy. Down in the marsh, a mother Canada goose honks proudly as she glides across a mirror of water, her brood of chubby gray goslings in tow. Fireflies sparkle in the twilight like slow-motion shooting stars.
We farmers are at our busiest now, making the most of this balmy season. What fragrance better portrays summer than the scent of a field of freshly cut alfalfa? When they gather, farmers may either curse or pray for rain—depending on whether or not they have hay down. Our children play in the cool recesses of the grove, squandering this time as if there were an unlimited supply of warm, lazy afternoons.
Fall arrives with a curl of tangy wood smoke rising from a chimney. The crops have ripened, turning the countryside into a patchwork of russet and gold.
Here is the season of harvest, a time for gathering in against the future. September brings the autumnal equinox; the days swiftly grow shorter. The trees have donned their finery, splashes of ruby and amber against the sapphire sky. The evening air turns crisp, and sound carries farther. A freight train laden with fall’s bounty blows its mighty air horn. I can hear the lonesome moan echoing across the empty miles.
My neighbor harvests soybeans in the gathering dusk, his gargantuan combine belching a thunderhead of dust that hangs in the still air. There’s a whistle of wings and I glance up to see a flock of teal streak over. I watch until they become tiny specks on the southern horizon. Winter sometimes sneaks in on cat’s paws, dusting the countryside with bone-colored powder.
The season can also scream in like an ice-blooded Fury, with swirling winds that slash through even my thickest clothing.
The sun becomes a snowbird, lingering for most of the day in the southern part of the sky. My only company during morning and evening chores are the stars—sentinels who look down upon me, cold and unblinking, across the light years. But winter is also a time for celebrations, of family gatherings and sumptuous food and jovial company. Nothing is more delightful than coming in from the deep cold and smacking
into a wall of steamy, luscious cooking aromas. This is one of civilization’s finest achievements.
The rhythms of life slow. Winter is a season for rest and for early bedtimes.
Each night, an airplane wings its way over our farm on its scheduled voyage to somewhere. Sometimes I’ll lie awake beside my slumbering wife and await its arrival. I can hear the Doppler shift in its tone as it drones on by. I think about how lonely it must be up there in the cockpit, to be awake while others sleep, to tunnel through the infinite blackness of the winter night. I wonder if the pilot ever thinks about those below. I push these thoughts aside, snuggle up to my wife, and pull the covers closer.
And earth and I both find rest and pass the long winter night dreaming of spring. •
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I want to thank my entire family for their steadfast support throughout the many years it took to produce this work. A special shout-out to our sons, Paul and Chris, for providing me with such vast amounts of writing fodder.
Thank you also to Arielle Eckstut. Arielle and her husband, David Henry Sterry, and their Pitchapalooza program helped me plant the seed that grew into this book.
I would like to express my deep gratitude to Danielle Svetcov, my literary agent at the Levine Greenberg Rostan Literary Agency. This work wouldn’t have been possible without Danielle’s wisdom and encouragement.
A heartfelt thanks to Bruce Tracy, my editor at Workman Publishing, for his gentle and thoughtful guidance. He truly helped make this book wonderfuler.
Thanks to Dan Brown, a dear friend and my former high school English teacher. Dan is a prime example of how the best teachers can continue to influence their students long after class is over.
And finally, I would like to say “Thanks, pardner” to Mel Kloster, the county agent guy who first advised me to publish my work. Mel is now rounding up strays in that big cow pasture in the sky, but his memory continues to live on.
About the Author
Jerry Nelson is a freelance writer and former dairy farmer. His works have been published in the nation’s top farm magazines, including Successful Farming, Farm Journal, Progressive Farmer, and Living the Country Life. For nearly twenty years, he has penned a weekly newspaper column called Dear County Agent Guy. Jerry’s column reaches 250,000 readers each week. In addition to print media, Jerry’s column is published on numerous newspaper websites. Successful Farming also posts his column on their website, agriculture.com.
Garrison Keillor has used several of Jerry’s scripts on the nationally syndicated radio program A Prairie Home Companion. Jerry has been featured on South Dakota Public Radio and Television.
After leaving the dairy farming business in 2002, Jerry took a position as a writer/ad salesman for the Dairy Star, a bimonthly newspaper for dairy operators all across the Midwest. Jerry and his wife, Julie, live in Volga, South Dakota, on the farm that Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded in the 1880s.
Copyright © 2016 by Jerry Nelson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying—without written permission of the publisher. Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
The essays in this book originally appeared in a slightly different form in the column “Dear County Agent Guy,” which was featured in newspapers across the Midwest and on websites. Some of the essays appeared first elsewhere: “That Old House,” “Don Quixote, Tax Reformer,” and “My Shameful Affair with the Farm Program” were published in Successful Farming. “The Ghosts of Horses Past” and “Uncle Wilmer” were published in Progressive Farmer. “Farm Corporate Jargon” was published in Farm Journal.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-7611-8908-4
Photo Credits: Fotolia: Oleksandr Bebich vi, 71; maksymomicz: xiv; Getty Images: pshaun/E+ 132; Dover Publications, Inc.: v, vii, 1, 133.
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