10. What the Farm Really Teaches a Person
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People imagine farms as peaceful places. They picture sunsets over fields, quiet mornings, and a simpler way of life. There’s some truth to that, but anyone who’s lived it knows the real story: the farm is a teacher, and its lessons don’t come softly.
The first thing the farm teaches is that life doesn’t wait for you. The work is there at dawn whether you feel like it or not. Animals don’t check your schedule, and weather doesn’t care what you planned. The farm doesn’t care if you’re sick or healthy — the work still has to be done. Responsibility isn’t something you talk about; it’s something you step into every morning. You learn that showing up matters more than how you feel, and that excuses don’t change reality. I remember many mornings when the alarm would go off and I would have given anything to sleep a bit longer, but the schedule didn’t allow it.
The second lesson is humility. No matter how strong or skilled you think you are, nature will remind you who’s actually in charge. A single storm, a sick animal, or a breakdown can turn a planned day upside down. Over time, that builds a kind of steadiness. You stop expecting perfection and start relying on persistence. You learn to work with what’s in front of you, not what you wish you had.
I remember countless times when we planned a short getaway only to have something go wrong at the last minute — a cow getting sick, a piece of equipment giving out, or someone needing help. My wife eventually learned not to fully trust any plan involving time away. Once, we took a trip to Florida with her folks. We had arranged for someone to watch the dairy. When I called home, no one answered the barn phone. I asked my dad to check on things. He called back with a report no farmer wants to hear: cows still outside on a winter evening, barn gutters full, milkers from the morning lying unwashed in the milk room — and more.
We were getting ready to go out for dinner, but that plan changed immediately. Dad and my uncle cleaned the barn, washed the milkers, spread the manure, brought the cows in, and fed them. I called a neighbor who came over and milked after finishing his own chores.
Turned out the young man doing the work had left suddenly when his wife went into false labor. He simply dropped everything.
There’s a difference between helping someone and carrying the responsibility yourself. When you have skin in the game, you handle things differently.
That truth became even clearer a few years before when my wife began to miscarry in the middle of the night. It was around 2:30 AM. I went out and did the essential chores early, as quickly as I could, and then drove her to Madison. Life doesn’t pause for emergencies, even serious ones. You learn to do what has to be done because there’s no one else to step in.
Another lesson the farm teaches — one you don’t really appreciate until much later — is how connected everything is. The land responds to how you treat it. Animals sense your temperament. A small decision made at the wrong time can become a big problem later. You start seeing cause and effect in everyday things: how patience prevents mistakes, how timing matters more than speed, and how a single overlooked detail can cost you a day.
Growing up or working on a farm also teaches the value of quiet work — the kind no one praises but everyone depends on. Fences don’t fix themselves. Tools don’t magically stay sharp. Water’ers, feeders, barns, and machines all require care long before anyone sees the result. That habit follows you for the rest of your life. You learn to maintain things before they break and to appreciate the invisible work others do.
And finally, the farm teaches something deeper: the rhythm of life itself. You see birth, growth, struggle, and death not as abstract ideas but as daily realities. It doesn’t harden you — it grounds you. You learn that life moves in cycles, that not everything can be controlled, and that some things must simply be accepted with respect and gratitude.
These lessons aren’t romantic, and they’re not nostalgic. They’re practical. They’re real. And they shape a person long after the farm itself is behind them. When you’ve spent enough time with soil under your nails and weather in your bones, you carry a quiet knowledge:
Life is work — but meaningful work is its own reward.
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