Patio Pondering: When a Good Battery Is Actually Bad

Another bright, sunny morning here on the Patio, sipping my coffee as I look over our snow-covered backyard. This morning my thoughts drift back to a simple “honey do” task I thought I finished yesterday and how it unexpectedly connects to the workplace.

Yesterday I replaced the battery in the garage door remote. We keep a battery cache with everything from tiny wafer batteries up to big D cells, so I grabbed a replacement 2032, put it in the remote, and went on with my evening.

This morning, when I left to take my son to school, the garage door did not budge. None of the buttons on the remote worked. My first thought was that I must not have reconnected the remote to the opener. No big deal. I planned to fix that after the school run.

When I returned home I tried to reconnect the remote to the opener, but after several attempts it still failed to connect. The Learn light kept flashing, a little reminder in my face that it was not working. After a few more tries, I headed into the house, grabbed the battery tester, and found the problem. The battery was dead. Caput. No juice.

The part that stuck with me was not that I used the wrong tool. It was that I trusted a bad one. That battery came from the “good battery” drawer, the place where the working ones are supposed to live, so I never thought to question it. I assumed I had what I needed, and that assumption sent me troubleshooting the wrong problem. I could have spent all morning trying different fixes with no hope of success.

It struck me how often this same pattern shows up in our teams. We assume the people around us have what they need, the skills, the clarity, the support, the bandwidth, simply because they are in the role or because they have managed before. We assume everything is charged and ready to go. But just like that battery in the good drawer, not everything that looks prepared actually is. And when someone on the team is running on empty, the whole system ends up troubleshooting the wrong problems.

Over my career I have been asked many times if I had the right tools to do my job and to support sales and my customers. Most of the time I did, but the ‘tool’ I needed most was a leader who had the charge, clarity, and capacity to guide the team forward, especially when our teams carried so many dotted-line responsibilities to essential parts of the business.

As we approach the start of a new calendar year, it is a good time to reflect on your teams. Rarely does a team fail because people do not care. More often they falter because someone was running on empty while everyone else assumed they had a full charge. Before the next project stalls, ask yourself: are you sure your people have what they need?

Another bright, sunny morning here on the Patio, sipping my coffee as I look over our snow-covered backyard. This morning my thoughts drift back to a simple “honey do” task I thought I finished yesterday and how it unexpectedly connects to the workplace.

Yesterday I replaced the battery in the garage door remote. We keep a battery cache with everything from tiny wafer batteries up to big D cells, so I grabbed a replacement 2032, put it in the remote, and went on with my evening.

This morning, when I left to take my son to school, the garage door did not budge. None of the buttons on the remote worked. My first thought was that I must not have reconnected the remote to the opener. No big deal. I planned to fix that after the school run.

When I returned home I tried to reconnect the remote to the opener, but after several attempts it still failed to connect. The Learn light kept flashing, a little reminder in my face that it was not working. After a few more tries, I headed into the house, grabbed the battery tester, and found the problem. The battery was dead. Caput. No juice.

The part that stuck with me was not that I used the wrong tool. It was that I trusted a bad one. That battery came from the “good battery” drawer, the place where the working ones are supposed to live, so I never thought to question it. I assumed I had what I needed, and that assumption sent me troubleshooting the wrong problem. I could have spent all morning trying different fixes with no hope of success.

It struck me how often this same pattern shows up in our teams. We assume the people around us have what they need, the skills, the clarity, the support, the bandwidth, simply because they are in the role or because they have managed before. We assume everything is charged and ready to go. But just like that battery in the good drawer, not everything that looks prepared actually is. And when someone on the team is running on empty, the whole system ends up troubleshooting the wrong problems.

Over my career I have been asked many times if I had the right tools to do my job and to support sales and my customers. Most of the time I did, but the ‘tool’ I needed most was a leader who had the charge, clarity, and capacity to guide the team forward, especially when our teams carried so many dotted-line responsibilities to essential parts of the business.

As we approach the start of a new calendar year, it is a good time to reflect on your teams. Rarely does a team fail because people do not care. More often they falter because someone was running on empty while everyone else assumed they had a full charge. Before the next project stalls, ask yourself: are you sure your people have what they need?

Patio Pondering: No One Is Indispensable, Even You

It snowed overnight here in NE Indiana, and the whole landscape is covered in a clean, white blanket as the morning sun hits the fields. My coffee is hot, and I am tucked into the Annex Patio trying to get back into the groove after travel and the holidays.

As I look out across the fields, I have been thinking about what I call our operational rhythms. These are the natural ebbs and flows of a team’s availability over the course of a year. People travel for work. People take PTO. There are conferences, family needs, sick days, and the crush of year-end responsibilities. No team stays at full strength for all fifty-two weeks.

A recent example is my own schedule. I spent ten days consulting in China and came home just in time to roll right into Thanksgiving. That back-to-back stretch would have created real challenges for any team I was part of, and it made me think about what leadership can do along with what each of us can do individually to prepare for those inevitable absences.

For leaders, the responsibility starts with building teams that can function smoothly when someone is gone. That means setting expectations early, making sure responsibilities are shared, and avoiding single points of failure. A leader can create a culture where stepping away is manageable or a culture where people feel like they must lug a laptop into a tent on vacation just to keep things afloat. I have seen that happen. I have done versions of that myself.

Employees also carry responsibility. This part is a little uncomfortable to admit.

Sometimes we do not prepare our coworkers for our absence because, deep down, being the only one who can do something feels good. It feels secure. It feels important. If I am the only one who can fix a problem, then I must be indispensable. I have fallen into that mindset before, and it helped no one, including me.

Looking back, I wish I had been better at making clean handoffs before I stepped away. I wish I had communicated more clearly about what might come up, what needed covered, and what could wait until I returned. Preparing others is not a burden. It is a responsibility that strengthens the whole team.

Operational rhythms are not going away. They are part of the business cycle, and they can create chaos or build resilience depending on how we approach them.

As we move through the year with its travel, PTO, deadlines, and life events, how do we prepare each other so the work continues smoothly and no one feels forced to carry the load alone?

Patio Pondering: Lessons from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood at 40,000 Feet

It is the start of a new month, and I am jumping back in the saddle after being overseas and celebrating Thanksgiving. Today began with a school closure announcement and my feed full of weather advisories. My coffee is hot, and I am NOT writing from the frigid patio this morning.

A couple of weeks ago, while traveling to Asia and cruising somewhere over the Northwest Territories at 40,000 feet, I watched A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, the biopic about Fred Rogers and a fictionalized journalist. One line from Mr. Rogers hit me square in the chest as I settled in for the long flight.

The movie centers on an investigative journalist who is assigned to interview Fred Rogers for a “Heroes” expose. The journalist had arranged an initial phone call through Mr. Rogers’ team, and during that conversation, Rogers asks him:

“Do you know what the most important thing in the world is to me right now?”

The interviewer guesses no.

Mr. Rogers replies, “Having this phone call with you, Lloyd.”

Think about that.

All the influence he had.
All the tapings.
All the people pulling at him.
All the emotional weight he carried for others.

And yet, the most important thing in the world to him was the moment right in front of him.

That line stuck with me. If I am honest, it stung a little.

I can think of too many times in my life in meetings, on sales calls, in family conversations, or even small talk in the barn when I was only half there. I was physically present but mentally somewhere else. I was thinking about the next deadline, the next customer issue, the next feeding program, or the next crisis.

I do not think I am alone in that.

But what if we took a page from Fred Rogers?
What if the person we were talking to became the most important thing in the world for those few minutes?

Imagine how that would change our sales calls.
Or our conversations with coworkers.
Or the way we talk to our kids at the end of a long day.

When I wrote the rough draft of this reflection while sitting in the Tokyo airport replaying that line in my head, I wondered how often I give people the gift of my full attention and how often I shortchange them without meaning to.

Maybe that is the challenge for all of us today.

Wherever we are and whoever is in front of us, can we make that the most important thing in the world?

Patio Pondering: A Thanksgiving Reflection

This Thanksgiving morning, the coffee is hot, the fields are quiet, and the to-do list can wait for a day. Even with some corn still standing and cover crop left to plant, today is a reminder that gratitude isn’t tied to perfect circumstances — it’s tied to perspective.

Like many of you, this year brought its share of challenges and unexpected turns. But it also brought moments of grace, helping hands, good conversations, and a deeper appreciation for the simple parts of life we often overlook.

So today, I’m thankful for family around the table…

For neighbors who show up when it matters…

For the sunrise over a frosty field…

And for the chance to pause long enough to notice all of it.

Wishing you a day filled with warmth, rest, and the kind of gratitude that lingers long after the dishes are done.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. 🍁☕🦃

Patio Pondering: Saying Yes

This morning, my coffee is strong as usual, and I enjoyed the first sips as I gazed across the pre-dawn landscape while waiting for my son to finish getting ready for school. The snow is melting, but what is left gives a beautiful patina to our backyard and the surrounding fields.

With the recent snow and glimpses of the coming winter, all the “No’s” in my life have been weighing on me. No’s from family, friends, job interviews, potential business partners, and many more. When life throws you curveballs and the path you are on isn’t the one you planned, it is easy to get caught in the quicksand of negativity, second-guessing past decisions and actions.

But this morning, as we quickly approach Thanksgiving, I want to focus on the Yes’s, the yes’s that make my life better.

Over the past 15 months, I have said YES to a lot of job opportunities. Unfortunately, none of the employers complimented with their own yes. Those No’s have given me time to explore other Yes’s, though.

The most obvious YES is my writing. This journey of sharing thoughts and reflections through my daily Patio Ponderings has expanded my writing skills and opened my soul and thoughts to anyone willing to read them.

I said YES to setting up my own consulting, staying open to new ways I can help the swine industry with my skills and experience.

I said YES when my gut told me I needed a website presence for Patio Pondering. Expanding my skills as a “web designer” was a stretch for me, but it has become another creative outlet.

Using artificial intelligence to help me create is a huge YES, especially for a Gen Xer. While some of my friends are lamenting AI and all the “computer gadgets,” I am using it daily, and it has made me a better writer, scientist, and communicator.

I said YES when Todd Thurman and Ryan Martin encouraged me to start podcasting. That opened my communication repertoire in ways I never imagined. My interviewing skills have grown, and that growth has carried over into conversations with family and friends as well.

On our farm, I have said YES to expanding our use of stewardship practices like cover crops and no-till. I have also said YES to promotion, actively looking for opportunities to add more acres instead of sitting back and waiting for them to find us.

With my family, I have said YES, attending marching band competitions recently when things at home could have easily occupied my time. That is alongside all the other YES’s that help our family navigate our hectic lives together.

I continue to say YES to friends and my community. They add rich colors to our life using a palette I could never craft myself, whether it is our Fair Folk family, Boy Scouts and the Philmont crew, 4-H, or simply stepping up to help a neighbor in need.

There will be a two-week pause to my daily Patio Ponderings because I said YES to an opportunity to help a friend with his business overseas.

The quicksand is still there; life will always have its pull, but each YES is a step forward, a vine to pull yourself out of the muck and toward solid ground again.

Patio Pondering: The Power of an Unexpected Compliment

This morning was the coldest since last February, 24 degrees here at the house, with the driveway and barnyard glazed in ice. I am enjoying my coffee from the kitchen window, looking out over the patio and snow-covered landscape. My winter wardrobe is not quite ready for pondering outside in the cold.

As I poured my coffee, a memory came to mind. It was a moment of unexpected praise from many years ago that still brings a smile to my face.

I was at an annual sales meeting in a training center still dressed in its 1970s glory, complete with shag carpet, wood paneling, low ceilings, and poor acoustics. If you closed your eyes, you could almost smell the faint trace of smoke from the days when lighting up in a meeting was accepted, even expected.

Like most meetings of its kind, the presentations dragged on as leaders clicked through slides covering topics many already knew or that did not apply to everyone. I do not remember what the National Sales Manager was talking about, but I remember when he suddenly called me out by name for doing a great job promoting a swine product line.

I sat there, partly embarrassed and partly proud that my work had been noticed. The best part was how unexpected it was. Later, as I thought about it on the drive home, those few simple words carried more weight than any of the charts or strategies we discussed.

Recognizing someone’s work in a spontaneous and genuine way can have a lasting impact on both the team and the individual.

How can you lift someone’s spirits today with a simple and unexpected “Great job”?

Too often we hold back praise because we think it is not the right time, worry it might embarrass someone, or fear that others might feel overlooked. Sometimes, though, a few honest words of recognition are exactly what someone needs to keep going.

Patio Pondering: The Ingredients of Belonging

A Morning of Chaos and Calm

This sunny Monday morning was discombobulated by Mother Nature throwing snow and ice at the morning commute. Our local school is now on an e-learning day, which is being foiled by network issues with Canva, and the local news feeds are full of crash notices and calls to slow down.

As I enjoyed that later-than-normal coffee, it struck me how quickly we all adapt. Ice and snow rearrange the whole day, yet life keeps moving. The instinct to adjust seems stronger and comes more naturally when we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

The Band That Belongs

Yesterday we hosted an unofficial end-of-year party for my son’s marching band. The original plan was to have a bonfire with one of the piles of trees we pulled from a fenceline, but snow and cold made us shift to an indoor event. Fortunately, we have a large house that could accommodate 45 high-schoolers and their loud voices.

As my wife and I entertained, watched, and listened, we were in awe of how this group of teenagers molded together as a team on and off the field. There were the typical teenage-boy antics, high-school girls’ laughter and gossip circles, but there were no exclusions, no one sitting alone on the sidelines. Everyone was involved.

The beauty of this band is that the only real qualification is an interest in music and a willingness to march. No one asks for résumés or reference letters, just commitment and heart. Somehow, it works. Every personality, every background, every odd quirk finds its place in the formation. Variety isn’t engineered here; it’s invited, expected, and accepted.

Watching them, I couldn’t help but think about how we adults try to replicate this sense of belonging by manipulating our teams and friend groups. Maybe this sense of belonging came from the close-quarters costume changes on school buses, the late-evening practices, or the joy of a successful season. Maybe it’s because these students—these children—have a home in the musical arts where they can grow, excel, and learn.

When Fit Replaces Belonging

I don’t know exactly why they molded into the groups they did. I do know they have my respect for what they are and how they are competitive, yet competition isn’t everything to them. As I watched the band run around the house, have a snowball fight, and even feed our horses apples, I couldn’t help but think about how this team came together without prequalifications, without placement exams, or screenings to see if they “fit.”

That stands in contrast to three job interviews I had this past year. All three started well, with, “Your résumé and experience fit what we want in this role.” In all three cases, the next step was a personality-profile assessment to see where I might fit with their team. And in all three cases, I was ghosted by the companies. I didn’t pass their test to be on their team. I never had the chance to share how I could fit in with my experience and talents.

I know these companies are just trying to facilitate and speed up cohesion, but their filtering may have stripped away the very ingredients that make a team rich. The people who think differently, who bring rough edges or unexpected ideas, are often the ones who add the flavor that can’t be found in a formula.

I wonder how different my son’s marching band would be if the director had used the same kind of test, “just to see how you would fit in,” before accepting someone into the band.

Engineering teams can be necessary in very specific cases. But engineering a team to fit some arbitrary matrix loses talent, loses the variety of experiences that make our world better, and limits you to just what you already know.

The Stone Soup of Teamwork

As I contemplated the differences between what I saw in my son’s marching band and what I’ve experienced in the workplace over the years, I remembered a fable I read as a young student: Stone Soup.

In the story, a traveler convinces wary villagers to contribute to a pot of boiling water that begins with nothing but a simple stone. One by one, they add what little they have—a few carrots, a potato, some herbs—and together they create something far richer than any of them could have made alone.

In the case of the band, the stone is the band itself, and the director adds what’s needed—another tuba, more flags, a bass guitar. He adds and takes as they come, just like the fable where each person brings what they have to make the soup richer.

In contrast, the workplace also starts with a stone, a sales objective or a project goal, but it adds to it differently. They want a marketing manager with x years of experience, a specific degree, and the right personality profile. The soup, while still a soup, doesn’t have the same depth of flavor.

It made me realize we’re all trying to make our own version of Stone Soup, but somewhere along the line we started turning away the ingredients that make it good, because we thought we knew better, that we knew exactly what we needed. But did we?

Finding the Recipe Again

Maybe the answer isn’t to perfect the recipe, but to trust the process. To let the right ingredients find their way to the pot. Like the marching band, the best teams are built from those willing to show up, contribute what they have, and make something greater together. That’s how real belonging begins, not from who we select, but from who we invite.

Patio Pondering: Not for Fame or Fortune

This morning’s a bit different. I do not usually write my Patio Ponderings on a Sunday, and every one of the 259 before this came from a workday morning. But the snow that fell overnight, and this third or maybe fourth cup of coffee, have my thoughts bubbling over. Pondering on yesterday’s Indiana State Marching Band Finals stirred up more than just pride for my son’s band. It reminded me how many people work behind the scenes to make those moments happen.

Leo Jr./Sr. High School, where my son plays, made its first finals appearance in fourteen years and placed sixth in Class C. Our neighbors at Woodlan finished seventh in Class D. Both bands had incredible seasons, and seeing all the smiles, hugs, and proud posts from students, parents, directors, and even school administrators warmed this snowy morning.

But as I sat here gazing at the snow-covered landscape, my thoughts didn’t stay on the performers or the trophies. They turned to the people behind the scenes, the ones pushing carts of accessories, running cords for microphones, pulling wagons laden with water bottles, ensuring each prop is placed just right on the field, and making sure every show runs like it should. You see them in their color-coordinated pants and shirts proudly emblazoned with “Pit Crew.” They’re the unsung heroes, the quiet engine that keeps the band moving from one field to the next.

I’m not one of those volunteers. My CDL-exempt farmer’s license does not stretch to a band semi, so we support in other ways. But I have watched those parents work, the same faces, week after week, in the dark, in the rain, in the two-minute set-up rush between performances, steady as can be.

There is a line from an old Alabama song from my youth that fits them perfectly: “Not for fame or fortune do they strive.” These folks don’t do it for applause or recognition. They do it for love, for their kids, for my kid, for their school, and for the joy of seeing all the months of hard work by the director, students, and band staff come alive under the lights.

Mike Rowe made a career celebrating people who do the hard, unseen jobs that keep our world and schools running, the custodians, secretaries, lunch ladies, and bus drivers who make sure each school day is ready for educational excellence. Band parents fit right in that group. On any given Friday night or Saturday morning, you’ll find them out there pushing props across the turf, dropping cords in the cold, and making sure the spotlight shines on someone else.

So here’s to them, the behind-the-scenes, cart puller, prop puter-upper, water-carrying, cheer-leading parent volunteers who make the magic happen. The band may bring the music and the flash, but the heartbeat behind it belongs to you. My hat is off to you, every one of you!

Patio Pondering: The Wisdom of Turning Right to Go Left

Patio Pondering: The Wisdom of Turning Right to Go Left

The weather forecasters were right!

I woke to the comforting pitter-patter of rain on the roof and am now enjoying my coffee while watching it fall around the patio. This kind of rainy weather is perfect for pondering here on the patio.

But I am not reflecting on the accuracy of weather forecasting or even on how the rain changed my plans. Not today. Today’s thoughts are on the Left-Hand Turn.

The left-hand turn is inefficient, time-consuming, and dangerous.

I see that inefficiency when I drop off or pick up my son at school. The exit is supposed to be right-turn only, but when the police officer is not there, the mice will play. Inevitably, a left-hand offender slows the entire drop-off line as they wait for a break in both lanes of traffic. Sometimes their impatience nearly causes a wreck, but the left-hand offender does not seem to care how their choice affects everyone else. For the rule followers, this is infuriating.

The dangers of the left-hand turn are not limited to parking lots. Just last week, I almost had a collision with a Honda Accord while making a left-hand turn with a grain cart. To set the scene, I was hauling a full load to unload into a semi-trailer. A grain cart is essentially a portable grain bin; ours holds 1,000 bushels and is about the size of a New York studio apartment. We had flashers, beacons, and turn signals all operating, doing everything right, yet the driver still chose to ignore it.

As I began my turn, I caught a glimpse in the rear-view camera of that gray Accord pulling out to pass. I was already committed to the turn, and stopping an 80,000-pound rig is not as simple as stomping on the brake. Fortunately, I stopped just in time and avoided a wreck. Instead of any appreciation for not totaling their car, the passenger’s response came in the form of a few choice hand gestures and words even a novice lip-reader could translate. There was no acknowledgment of their improper passing at an intersection or disregard for my turn signal, only the frustration of being delayed by a tractor and grain cart doing things the right way.

Moments like these remind me of the stories from years ago about how UPS limited left-hand turns in their routes because they were inefficient and unsafe. That change, one of those aha moments, cut fuel use, reduced mileage, and made Big Brown more efficient.

A small adjustment to eliminate an unnecessary, risky maneuver saved UPS millions in time, fuel, and accidents.

So I wonder, what would happen if we all learned to “turn right to get left” a little more often in life and stopped forcing those “cross-traffic turns” ingrained in our routines?

Patio Pondering: The Chilling Grip of Micromanagement

This morning dawned with a thin layer of frost across the fields, a quiet reminder that Thanksgiving is already on the horizon. My view from the patio is crisp and cold, the kind of morning where coffee feels less like a luxury and more like a necessity.

Over the past few weeks, I have had several conversations about micromanagement in both homes and workplaces. Not one of them was uplifting.

The conversations about micromanagement in the home centered on heavy-handed parenting that relied on phrases like “I told you to do it this way” or “Here is my plan for you.” These approaches often came with carefully plotted trajectories for someone else’s future. In one case, the pressure led a family member to rebel, and the situation eventually drew law enforcement involvement.

At work, the tone was not much better. Friends shared experiences of managers watching every move, criticizing without offering direction, and even hinting at retaliation when questioned. Different setting, same result. Control is often mistaken for leadership.

It is frustrating to listen to because you can almost see the damage forming in real time. These environments do not grow people; they shrink them. They do not build trust; they break it.

So how do we handle the micromanagers in our lives? Do we walk away and look for freedom somewhere else? Or when the micromanager is a family member, do we find a way to set boundaries without burning the bridge?

Maybe the bigger question is this: How much control are we willing to surrender before we finally reclaim a little peace and trust of our own?

Patio Pondering: When the Right Role Waltzes In

The sky is clear and the air has a slight chill as the sun begins its trek across the late October sky here in Indiana. I’m back to my normal Dark Roast grind, coffee in hand, watching excavators move dirt on my neighbor’s farm for a new chicken house.

For some reason, my social media feed served up two references to Inglourious Basterds this morning, both about Christoph Waltz.

The first was a clip of Simon Sinek explaining how Waltz responded when asked how he managed to channel the evil needed to play Colonel Hans Landa. According to Sinek, Waltz looked puzzled by the question, and after a pause simply said, “He wasn’t evil.”

The idea that we all see ourselves as good, on the right side of history, could fill volumes. But the second video about Christoph struck a deeper chord; it felt more human, more familiar.

That second clip showed Quentin Tarantino describing how close he came to shelving Inglourious Basterds because he couldn’t find anyone to play the complex role of Hans Landa. Every audition fell short until Christoph walked into the room. He didn’t just read the part; he became it. Tarantino later said Waltz “saved the movie.”

In later interviews, Waltz reflected that Tarantino “plucked me out of comfortable resignation, out of self-pity.” By most counts, he had already built a respectable career, yet he was languishing, working steadily but without spark, convinced his best days were behind him. Then came a role unlike any he had played before, one that revealed a side of his talent few had ever seen and ultimately made him one of the most memorable villains of our time.

It made me wonder how often we typecast people in our work lives. How often leaders, teams, or even peers look at someone’s title or past role and assume that’s all they can offer. We reduce experience to a label, forgetting that most of us carry far more depth, creativity, and adaptability than a business card can hold.

We forget that sometimes the right role, the right opportunity, or the right moment just hasn’t walked into the room yet. My friend Jim Bishop recently wrote about his transformation from a corporate climber to private consultant. His words are worth your time.

Maybe the real challenge isn’t just about seeing others or ourselves differently, but leading in a way that gives people space to rediscover themselves, regardless of their title or where they are in their career path.

How often do we typecast others, or ourselves, and overlook the talent sitting right in front of us?

Patio Pondering: When the Squeaky Wheel Gets All the Grease

The sun has yet to crest the horizon this morning, the last week of “late” sunrises before we turn the clocks back to Standard Time. I am trying a different coffee roast today, and the change is refreshing as I take in the chilly patio view.

It’s hard to top yesterday’s One Year Sober reflection. As I sit here, coffee in hand, I have plenty of things flowing through the muddy waters of my brain, but one thought from yesterday afternoon keeps resurfacing: how some people can be so insular in their thoughts and actions that they fail to see the bigger picture.

The old saying “The squeaky wheel gets the grease” came to mind. I started thinking about how management reacts to these squeaky wheels, whether employees or customers. Too often, the response is to placate them. Give them what they want, make the noise stop, move on. But when that becomes the default, placating turns into rewarding.

I think back to a few customers I worked with who always complained. They complained about the plant. They complained about the truckers. They complained about the sales team and management. And management always tried to appease them. Yet the complaining never stopped. It probably still happens to this day.

That particular customer sold quite a bit of feed, but at some point, you must ask when is enough, enough? When is the abuse of your people and the complaining about your product and services too much?

I’ve seen it in other settings too, where the squeaky wheel keeps getting the grease while the rest of the wagon quietly holds the load. It is easy to focus on the noise because it demands attention. But the quiet ones, the dependable employees, the steady customers, the people who just do their jobs without drama, they are the ones who keep things rolling forward.

Maybe the lesson is not to stop greasing the squeaky wheel altogether, but to remember to grease every zerk, even the hard to reach one underneath the combine. Appreciation, trust, and attention shouldn’t only go to those who make the most noise. Sometimes it’s the quiet, consistent ones who deserve the grease the most.

As you head into your day, who’s keeping your wagon moving, and have you let them know you notice?

Patio Pondering: One Year Without Alcohol

This week I am solo parenting since Kim is in Nebraska playing Grandma.

I started my day playing Soccer Dad, dropping our son off at school before the sun crested the horizon. Fortunately, I had a tumbler of hot coffee to wake me up as I endured the drop-off line.

Today is a special day for me. Not only is it my son’s 16th birthday, but it is also my one-year mark without alcohol.

I distinctly remember the Sunday morning 365 days ago when I resolved to stop “enjoying” bourbon and the routine that surrounded it. I had just awakened after hosting my son’s birthday party the night before and realized I could not remember the entire evening. Sadly, it was not the first time that had happened. Lying there, trying to piece together the night, I worried. What did I say? What did I do? Who did I offend? What could have gone wrong?

The words of comedian Nikki Glaser came back to me. She told Theo Von about her own “aha moment” when her brain simply shut down after a few drinks, a defense mechanism to protect her from what she might do if she kept drinking. I resembled that story, and that Sunday morning it scared the crap out of me enough to say, I am done.

My path to no alcohol was not typical. There were no shakes of withdrawal, no social media announcement, no meetings, and no wooden token. It was simply a quiet resolve to stop drinking.

As the days without bourbon and beer went by, I realized I was not addicted to alcohol nearly as much as I was addicted to the routine, both at home and in social settings. Grabbing the tumbler. Adding the ice. Pouring the bourbon. Breathing in that first waft of aroma. Hearing the clink of ice in the glass. That little ritual became the rhythm of my evenings.

Then I did the math. I was going through three half-gallons of bourbon every two weeks. That is a lot of alcohol.

Sitting here twelve months later, I can see how much stress I put on myself, my family, and my friends when I drank. I know I did things I would never do sober, said things I did not mean, celebrated too hard, and definietly offended a few people. Fortunately, I do not have those regrets from the past year. If I offended you in the past twelve months, I meant to do it. 😉

I am not posting this to brag, well, maybe just a little, but mostly to be a small light for someone who might need a nudge to do something they have been wanting to do to improve their life.

☕ Listen to my podcast discussion about this journey at PatioPondering.com/podcast.

Patio Pondering: Muscle Memory

This morning dawned sunny and bright. The forecasted frost never came, and with hot coffee in hand, it looks to be a great start to the last day of the week.

Yesterday a friend sent me a short video of pianist Maria João Pires, who came to play Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23—only to realize, seconds before the orchestra began, that they were performing No. 20 instead. For a moment she was stunned. Then, as the music swelled, she relaxed, trusted her training, and played flawlessly. Her fingers remembered what her mind had forgotten.

Watching her, I thought about muscle memory in my own life. Earlier this week I was working soybean stubble ground to repair ruts and compaction from a wet spring. For those of us who grew up running tillage—whether it was a disc, a plow, or a field cultivator—you get it. You feel it. It’s like driving a car down a gravel road; you don’t stare at the shoulder to stay centered, you just know where it is.

That’s how tillage works when you’re the one actually holding the wheel. I’m not talking about auto-steer; I mean when you’re fully in control of the tractor. You feel where the equipment is behind you and where the tractor needs to be in relation to the last pass or the field edge. Before long, you don’t have to look back—you just sense it. You focus on the horizon, and everything else falls into place. That’s muscle memory.

I learned that feel back in 1986 on an old International H with an eight-foot disc. Over time, it became second nature as I worked with bigger and bigger tillage implements over the years, just as Pires relied on hers. And it’s not limited to fieldwork. In my years as a swine nutritionist, problems sometimes hit my desk that felt hauntingly familiar. The data, the symptoms, the customer’s tone—it all echoed past experiences. Like Maria João Pires in that moment of panic, I’ve had to pause, take a breath, and trust that I’ve played this tune before. That same muscle memory—the quiet confidence built through repetition—guides my hands even when the situation changes key.

Experience doesn’t just teach us what to do; it trains us to feel when something’s right—or when it isn’t. And more importantly, when we lean into that experience—our own muscle memory—like Pires, we can overcome the unexpected challenges that land in front of us.

Where in your work do you trust your own kind of muscle memory?

Patio Pondering: When Job Descriptions Don’t Tell the Whole Story

It’s been a busy time here on the patio working on a couple of consulting projects, but this morning’s coffee is extra enjoyable as I watch the sunrise over the wet landscape. The hot coffee fills me with comfort as I recharge my batteries for the day ahead.

A couple of weeks ago, several friends sent me a job description and all said, “Jim, this looks just like you.” I read through it and thought, this is a no-brainer — a perfect match for my 25 years as a swine nutritionist and 18 years of direct work with producers. I crafted my résumé carefully to fit the job description and wrote a cover letter that highlighted how my experience aligned with each of the key requirements.

The screening phone interview with the HR director was going really well until they mentioned, almost in passing, “This position would have some leadership and mentorship responsibilities with one other person.”

I wasn’t mentally prepared for that question. My leadership experience started years ago in 4-H and Boy Scouts and has continued through the years, leading cross-functional teams that merged research, marketing, and nutrition to meet customer demands. But because it wasn’t in the job description, I hadn’t prepared examples or stories to highlight it. I stumbled through my answer, saying something vague like, “I haven’t led people directly, but I could do it.” Not my best moment, especially considering the mentoring and coaching I’ve done recently.

Other than that stumble, I thought the interview went great. I was already thinking about next steps when the “thanks but no thanks” email arrived.

I was dumbfounded. My résumé nearly mirrored the job description word for word. It talked about working directly with customers, being the face of the company at events like World Pork Expo and Iowa Pork Congress, and leading presentations and training sessions, all things I’ve done and done well throughout my career.

I reached out to the company president, whom I know, to ask what I was missing. His response:

“You have a lot of great experience, but the team was looking for someone with leadership and mentorship experience.”

What the heck? I went back and looked at the job description again. There was nothing in the essential functions or core competencies about leadership, mentorship, or supervision. Just a standard HR boilerplate line: “The Swine Nutritionist may have direct supervisory responsibilities.”

It wasn’t part of the essential functions or competencies, just a vague afterthought. The kind of sentence that checks a box for HR but doesn’t tell a candidate much about what the company really values.

I’m not frustrated because I didn’t get the job; after nearly sixty “no’s” over the last year, I’ve learned to take those in stride. I’m frustrated because what they wanted wasn’t what they said they wanted. If leadership and mentorship had been clearly listed, I would have highlighted my years of leading youth programs, mentoring colleagues, and coordinating cross-functional teams. I would have been prepared to discuss it in the interview. But they didn’t, and I wasn’t.

So here I sit, disappointed yes, but mostly frustrated by yet another example of incomplete communication. I was qualified for that position. More than qualified. But I didn’t get to highlight it because I didn’t know it was part of the criteria.

And as 2025 rolls on, I realize I’m not alone. I read about it all the time from other job seekers: “I matched the job they posted, not the candidate they were actually seeking.”

Patio Pondering: The Drift from Responsibility

Enjoying my coffee this morning on the patio is refreshing. Another beautiful sunrise and the promise of a great way to end a busy week.

As I was getting ready for the day, a thought jumped into my head about two former colleagues who never really did the jobs they were hired to do. What frustrated me most, and others on the team, was that both were allowed to keep operating outside their roles and were even rewarded for it.

One was hired to help grow a key part of our business. From the start, it was clear their interests were somewhere else. While the rest of us focused on building the commercial market, this person chased a specialty segment that had little to do with our goals. When I raised my concerns, I was told, “He’s selling feed, don’t worry about it.” But we should have worried. The market we were responsible for dried up, and that business never recovered.

The other was brought in to lead a team, complete with the title, the meetings, and the talk of collaboration. For a while, it looked promising. Plans were made, ideas were shared, and it felt like we were on track. Then the meetings stopped, the vision that once stretched like a clear vista over the Rockies turned into a Jackson Pollock splatter of half-formed ideas. “Scheduling conflicts” piled up. The calendar filled with Out of Office or Travel placeholders, while the team that needed direction was left to fend for itself. The team fell apart. The leader kept moving, but the team stopped growing.

So where does the blame really belong? Is it with the employees who chase what’s fun or flattering instead of what’s needed? Or with the managers who look the other way, mistaking movement for progress?

Maybe the real issue is that accountability fades when results are measured by activity instead of impact, or when made-up metrics are used to hide what’s really happening. Hide the truth and you’ve already excused the drift from real responsibilities.

As you lead your teams, how do you reward creativity and initiative while keeping the focus on core responsibilities? How do you balance maintenance with growth?

Patio Pondering: Partnerships That Pull Their Weight

There’s a chill in the air this morning. I’ve got a jacket on as I enjoy my coffee and watch the sun crest over the horizon. The clear sky promises another beautiful day here in Northeast Indiana.

As I continue building my consulting business, I’ve been thinking about partnerships — what makes them work and what doesn’t. Since 2007, I’ve worked with dealer networks in both technical support and direct sales roles. Some dealers were 100% brand loyal, while others mixed suppliers. Over those 18 years of sales calls, one question kept surfacing again and again:
“What are you, as the company representative, going to do to help me get more business?”

That’s a loaded question.

As livestock farming and the feed industry have evolved, there are fewer customers and more competition, and the sales process has changed dramatically. When I was asked that question, I had to pause and think: how much effort has this dealer put in on their own? How committed are they to the partnership? Do they offer services their market truly needs?

With proactive, full-line dealers, those conversations often led to detailed joint sales plans. But when a dealer sat behind the counter waiting for customers to walk in, blaming the company for not driving business their way, I didn’t waste much time.

The best partnerships always came from those who understood a simple truth:
If you help me grow, I’ll help you grow too.

Whether it’s farming, feed sales, or any business, real success starts when both sides lean into the harness and pull the traces.

Patio Pondering: Zig When Plans Zag

This morning dawned with a nuisance rain, a Finkle Sprinkle, with just enough to halt harvest activities in our area but not enough to relieve the drought that still has us in a death grip. The air carried that fresh smell of rain as the drops tapped softly on the patio roof.

We had to change plans, drop five, and punt.

That’s nothing new for any of us. Many times, when making sales calls with my teams, we had to adjust plans because a customer or prospect couldn’t meet. We’d shuffle our schedule, maybe stop in on that prospect who said, “Come by when you have time,” or grab lunch with a coworker we rarely saw. The day wasn’t lost; it just took a different route.

But as I reflect on how some of us naturally roll with these minor disruptions, others get stuck when plans change. They freeze, not from lack of effort, but from the discomfort of uncertainty. Some folks simply haven’t had to build that adaptability muscle yet, and that’s okay. They’re still valuable members of our teams.

The challenge, then, isn’t to outpace them. It’s to help bring them along. To lead by example when the plan zigs instead of zags. A calm voice, a steady hand, or even a simple, “Let’s figure it out together,” can turn frustration into forward motion.

How have you worked to smooth sudden shifts in plans with your teams, especially those challenged by the changes that happen at the speed of business?

Patio Pondering #250: A Milestone Morning

It’s another sunny morning off the patio. I drove my son to school and watched the sun creep over the horizon, another beautiful start to the day here in Northeast Indiana.

As I sat down to write, I realized something: this is my 250th Patio Pondering.

Two hundred fifty times I’ve sat with a thought, a reflection, a question, or an observation—and put it on paper. That should feel like a big milestone, right?

But the truth is, I don’t feel particularly profound this morning. My thoughts are muddled. My spirit is heavy. And nothing I’ve got feels ready to share, at least not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe post #251.

So for today, I’ll simply acknowledge the moment. Quietly. No fanfare. Just a nod to the discipline it takes to show up 250 times.

Sometimes that’s enough.

What milestone have you reached lately—not with applause, but with grit?

Patio Pondering: Being a Good Neighbor

Once again, a heavy mist drifts from our pond. The air is cooling, and autumn is coming. I made this morning’s coffee extra strong to kick-start the week.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what makes a good neighbor. We’ve all heard that “good fences make good neighbors,” but what about beyond a bull-strong, hog-tight fence?

Last week, I testified before a plan commission about a proposed livestock barn. My theme was “right place,” but in the back of my mind, I kept wondering, What about being a good neighbor? This new neighbor never spoke with anyone nearby about their plans, a misstep judging by the conversations I had afterward.

This weekend, I noticed blaze orange stakes on the farmland behind our place, telltale signs of impending construction. A few phone calls later, I learned this neighbor planned two chicken houses. Like the other barns, they haven’t approached any of us about their plans.

Then I thought about my own time here, almost two decades on this farm. Have I always been a good neighbor? No, I haven’t. I’m in the middle of a feud with one neighbor that will likely never end. Instead of talking face-to-face, I vented my frustration in an anonymous video. That was a mistake, one I’ll probably carry with me for the rest of my life.

As I’ve matured, I’ve tried to be a better neighbor by doing, sharing, and caring. When there are weddings or funerals, I drive, deliver, and sit, anything to help. But I still fall short when life gets busy. Between family, school events, and farm work, I sometimes forget to slow down, stop, and show concern.

How have you been a good neighbor? And what do you do to stay one when life gets busy?

Sometimes being a good neighbor starts with something as simple as a hello, a sincere wave when passing, or rolling down the window for a quick chat.