We Need a Trusty Trustee

Patio Pondering: We Need a Trusty Trustee

The 2025 financial data is now available on Gateway for taxpayers to review. I did just that, and I’m not happy.

In the 24 months following the closing of the NE Allen Fire Territory, the Republican candidate for Springfield Township Trustee received $78,639.88 from Fire Territory funds. Let that sink in. $78,639.88, from a closed, non-existent entity.

That candidate is Lori Dewitt.

The Gateway records show those payments split across two separate vendor accounts. Vendor 1549, listed as “Lori L. Dewitt,” received $6,591.30 in 2024 and $3,187.33 in 2025. Vendor 1671 tells a different story. That account was originally listed in public records as “Dewitt Consulting LLC,” a company I can find no legitimate record of. After I raised questions publicly about those payments, the vendor name was quietly changed to “Lori Dewitt.” That account received $56,053.47 in 2024 and $12,807.78 in 2025.

Two vendor IDs. One person. One fictitious company name that disappeared from the public record only after someone started asking questions.

When questioned publicly about the “Dewitt Consulting LLC” entry, Lori Dewitt blamed a high school intern for the mistake. That explanation does not pass the smell test. Establishing a vendor in a government payment system is not a casual data entry task. It requires a completed vendor application, a W-9, a Tax ID number, and authorization through the system. A vendor account tied to a fictitious company name does not get created by accident, and it does not receive $68,861.25 in payments without someone approving every single one of them

Here is what voters need to understand. The NE Allen Fire Territory was a joint operation serving Cedar Creek Township, Springfield Township, Scipio Township, and the towns of Leo-Cedarville and Grabill. Cedar Creek Township served as the financial manager for those funds. They held the checkbook. And Lori Dewitt, as Clerk of Cedar Creek Township, sat inside that operation. At the same time, she was serving on the Springfield Township Advisory Board, the very township she now wants to lead as Trustee. One person. Two townships. A clear conflict of interest.

Now the Indiana State Board of Accounts is investigating accusations of malfeasance and inappropriate use of those same NE Allen Fire Territory funds. In early February, the SBOA issued an extensive subpoena to Cedar Creek Township demanding financial records. Two townships. One pot of money. One name at the center of it all.

$78,639.88 doesn’t move itself out of a closed fund by accident. And a fictitious company name doesn’t appear in a public ledger by mistake.

Springfield Township voters deserve a trustee who is trustworthy. Before you cast a vote in 2026, pull up Gateway yourself. The data is public. The numbers don’t lie. And right now, those numbers are doing a lot of talking.

Stakeholders with Withheld Competence

In our discussions about leadership we easily fall into black and white assumptions. The leader leads. The team follows. When something goes wrong, we look up the chain.

But what if the failure was standing right next to the leader the whole time?

Early in the Fish Fry preparations I was working with a leader to finalize the last few items needed to complete carry-out line setup. I was following them as we were collectively running around like chickens with our heads cut off. Walking back into the cafeteria I stopped the leader, physically stopped them. Looked them in the eye and said: "Tell me what you need me to do and I will get it done. I'm here to help you."

There was a calming in their eyes as if a rock was lifted off of them.

We finished setting up for over 400 carry-out meals that night. There were no issues, we did not run out of supplies, the team knew what to do because we were prepared.

Sitting with my coffee this morning I thought about how differently that could have gone. Not because of the leader. Because of me.

I had knowledge. I had context. I had the ability to see what was needed. The question was whether I was willing to use it.

That is the conversation leadership training rarely has. We spend enormous energy teaching leaders to communicate, delegate, and inspire. We spend almost none teaching team members that they are stakeholders, not bystanders. A volunteer, an employee, or a crew member on the floor carries almost as much responsibility for the outcome as the person with the title. Their lack of contribution hurts the team as much as a leader who fails to share the plan.

Here is what makes this painful. In many cases the team member standing quietly in the back of the room is not clueless. They see the problem with the plan. They know the inventory is short. They recognize the method being described will not work. Their knowledge could make the difference between success and failure.

And they say nothing.

Not out of malice. Out of a misread of their own role. They are "just" a volunteer. "Just" an employee. "Just" a crew member. That word, just, is doing enormous damage. It gives people permission to withhold exactly what the team needs most.

Silence is not neutrality. A stakeholder who watches a plan fail when they had the knowledge to prevent it is not innocent. They are a contributor to the outcome, with or without a title.

The next time you are standing in the back of the room and you see something the leader does not, stop them. Look them in the eye. Tell them what you know.

That is not insubordination. That is what a stakeholder looks like.

Lean on the Gas

I rolled into the driveway at 11:15 last night.

The last few days had been a blur of good miles: visiting my daughter and her family in southeast Nebraska, the Midwest Animal Science meetings in Omaha, then over to Ames for the Niman Ranch Annual Meeting. By the time I pointed the car east on Wednesday afternoon, I knew it was going to be a long night. The GPS said midnight. I knew I could do better.

When I finally crossed into Indiana, I turned off the toll road and switched my Spotify to George Strait — a small nod to a man whose music has been present in my life since I started listening to country music on WBTU back in the 1980s. And somewhere around Warsaw, Run came on.

The whole song is pretty simple, really — Ford or Chevy, walk or run, just get home. And when that line hit — lean on the gas and off the clutch — twenty-eight years of late nights settled right down on my shoulders.

I've crossed the Midwest more times than I can count. Passing through Fort Dodge to end up in Sioux Center. O'Hare, which nobody enjoys. Interstate 70 across Southern Illinois and Missouri. Feed mills and dealer offices and pig barns. Weather changes every Midwesterner expects yet despises. I did all of it gladly. But every single trip ended the same way.

I came home.

I probably should have found a place to bunk up more than once over the years. But I didn't. Because I wasn't just heading home. I was heading to her. There's a woman waiting at the end of that driveway who has been my teenage dream since before I had any business dreaming that big.

The GPS said midnight. I pulled in at 11:15.

George said run.

Run I did.

One Opportunity. Two Responses.

This morning's reflection has been weighing on me for quite a while and the right moment never hit. Several weeks ago, I attended Scout Sunday at a local church. The pews were full of youngsters from Lion Scouts through young adult Ventures along with a wide array of adult leaders. Seeing the large group put a small smile on my face.

I've been involved with Scouting since my first year as a Cub Scout meeting in Mr. Hullinger's house on Salge Drive in the mid 1970's. I earned my Eagle, my eldest son is an Eagle, my youngest son is on his way to Eagle and is preparing to trek Philmont this summer.

During the sermon the preacher talked about how important the scouting organization was to this church. He talked about how the Scout Oath and Law were blueprints for life and how they fit with the gospel lesson where Jesus talks about fulfilling the law. The preacher spoke directly with the scouts, not at them, not preaching, but talked with them. It was a powerful moment.

The contrast with another congregation in our community is stark and embarrassing.

I learned last year that a church in our area with a long history with the scouts had pushed them out. Some in the leadership were frustrated that the scouts disrupted their church weekly and did not pay for the toilet paper they used. My understanding is that the church demanded payment for use of the facilities, a major sum, which ended up being the straw that broke the camel's back and forced the scouts to find a new home after many decades of partnership.

This same church raises money to mission out of country, yet they turned their back on a home-grown mission opportunity inside their doors every week.

I have thought about that contrast for months. Not the dollars. Not the logistics. The vision. Institutions reveal themselves in small decisions. What they protect. What they prioritize. What they’re willing to inconvenience themselves for.

One church saw disruption.

One church saw disciples.

Both had the same opportunity.

Hey, who's the Straw Boss here?

Yesterday I helped prepare a community fundraising supper for the first time in many years. The event has a great reputation and reception in the community, and for good reason. The event works because of the people, the ones who have been there for years. The food is great, and so is the community that shows up to make it happen.

Since I last helped, the organizers have added an online sign-up portal, which really helps. I arrived early, found the paper sign-in sheet, and prepared to contribute. I looked for the Straw Boss, someone to point me in the right direction, but people were already moving, already working. So I found my own way in.

After a little searching I landed the role of Sour Cream Cup Filler Master alongside another parent I've known for years. As my readers would expect, I watched and observed while getting that creamy milk product portioned. What I saw was impressive.

Experienced volunteers were simply doing their jobs, jobs they've done for years, with quiet efficiency. Teams tackled each task with purpose: filling cups, mixing salad, crafting the "secret" seasoning mix, preparing the meat. Tasks got done not because anyone assigned them, but because experienced people knew what to do and others followed. Call it the osmotic transfer of knowledge, it's something to admire.

But as I watched, one thing stood out by its absence, one thing this organization is famous for teaching and celebrating: A LEADER.

I watched newcomers walk in excited to help, ready to contribute, only to stand at the edge of the activity, uncertain where to jump in. No one greeted them, not because anyone was unwilling, but because everyone was heads-down in their own task. Eventually they found a place to be useful. They figured it out. But that moment of hesitation, that's where a leader pays dividends.

As my partner and I filled our cups, a fair amount of time was spent debating how many we needed. Was 350 enough? Then 400. Then 450 became the magic number. In the end we filled 449 cups, stopping only when the last sour cream container emptied. Across the aisle, the sauce fillers had the same conversation independently, 350, then 400. Not long after cleanup started, someone came in noting there weren't enough sauce cups and too many sour creams.

Well duh.

I knew that. I filled them.

The supper preparation was a success, let me be clear about that. This was NOT a disaster, not even close. The food prep was on point, the energy was good, and the community will be well fed. But I sat there mulling over the leadership training I've seen modeled both in this organization and others, and I kept coming back to one thought: how much better might it have gone with one person in a coordinating role? Not critiquing, not teaching, just ensuring the right hand knew what the left hand was doing.

A leader to say: we need 400 of these, and these folks will help you get there. A leader to welcome newcomers who were excited to help but unsure where to start. A leader to see where a good process could be made even better.

How many times do "leaders" feel the need to do the work themselves, convinced no one else can do it quite right? It happens everywhere. I've done it. You've done it. Everyone has.

Writing this reminds me of the 4-H motto: Make the Best Better. Yesterday's preparation was already pretty good. A leader in that room could have made it great.

Patio Pondering: When a Beef Girl Buys Pork

Last night was one of those Monday Daddy-Daughter calls. Granddaughter almost crawling, flat tires, a stuck tender truck, the usual chaos of a working farm wife and mother. In the middle of it all she asked a question that immediately caught my attention.

"Guess what I paid for a whole pork loin at Costco?"

Now that was not a question I expected from her.

I've written before about what a great deal whole pork loins are, occasionally taking a swing at pork promotional campaigns for leaving this opportunity on the table. But nothing makes the point better than what my daughter told me next.

She is, and always has been, a dyed-in-the-wool beef girl. Ever since showing her commercial heifer, May Rain, at the county fair, cattle had her heart. Not sheep. Not pigs. Cows. That carried into Collegiate Cattlemen, continues at CattleCon, and lives at the center of her professional life in beef marketing. Sam Elliott and all, beef really has been What's for Dinner at their house.

So when she asked that question, I knew something had shifted.

I threw out sixteen dollars.

"YES."

Eight pounds. $1.99 a pound. Chops, a roast, strips for tacos. Several meals from one purchase.

What stayed with me was not the price, though it was certainly a remarkable one. It was the perspective. My beef girl was not talking about pork as competition or substitution. She was talking about it exactly the way a consumer would: as value, flexibility, and another option for supper.

Even with her deep roots and enthusiastic loyalty to the beef industry, she could clearly see what that pork loin represented for a household trying to balance variety and budget.

It does make you wonder what might happen if families simply added one more pork meal now and then. Not replacing beef, but supplementing the dinner table with another choice.

Demand doesn't always shift because of sweeping strategies or industry campaigns. Sometimes it moves because someone standing behind a grocery cart notices a whole pork loin priced at $1.99 a pound.

Patio Pondering: Better Than Before

This weekend while watching the USA hockey team win Gold at the Olympics I happened to look at my hands. For most of us that is no big deal, but for me it was a bit different. I have Dupuytren's Contractures on both hands. These are nodules that can lead to ligament contraction and finger deformity.

The significance of my observation was that the nodules were different — better than they were in the past. I remember an annual physical where my physician said they were just part of aging and we would do surgery to fix them if or when needed. That was two years ago.

To satisfy my curiosity I consulted Doctor Google with the prompt "Dupuytren's Contracture Alcohol." The first finding noted that heavy, chronic alcohol consumption is recognized as a significant risk factor for the development and progression of Dupuytren's contracture.

The change between that physical and this weekend was my lack of heavy, chronic alcohol use. The nodules were smaller, no longer dark colored, and more pliable. All good things. Sobriety — check.

This morning while pouring my first cup of coffee I was not excited about the revelation. I was already moving on to the next task like "improve palm nodules" was an item on a checklist to complete. Instead of quiet satisfaction that my body had visibly responded to a hard choice, I was chastising myself for not sticking to my eating plan or exercising enough in preparation for my trip to Philmont with our scout troop this summer.

It was as if none of it was a big deal. Just another thing to do.

How many times in our lives do we accomplish something and then just move on to the next task without a moment to reflect on what we just did? What in our society instills the "That's great, but you need to do more" attitude that prevents us from appropriate celebration of hard-earned victories? I'm not talking about the Participation Mentality where every task gets an atta-boy. I'm talking about genuine milestones being minimized — poo-pooed as expected, dismissed because we have more to do.

When we reserve acknowledgement only for the extraordinary, we teach ourselves — and each other — that ordinary progress doesn't count. But most of what actually moves us forward happens quietly, incrementally, without a podium.

The doers get the praise because we've decided only the dramatic finish line is worth marking. Meanwhile the daily work — the real work — goes unacknowledged until we've forgotten it happened at all.

Notice the small wins. Not because you need the validation. Because the habit of acknowledgement is what keeps you doing the work.

Patio Pondering: One Man's Quiche, Another Man’s Casserole

Rain came through our area early this morning, the pitter-patter on the roof pulling me out of sleep before the alarm had a chance. The patio glistens as the morning sun finds its way through the landscaping. My coffee is hot and on the strong side as I settle into what I call the Terra Level Executive Suite — my home office, ground floor, close enough to the garden to feel honest about the day ahead.

My wife brought me breakfast while I was organizing my to-do list. A slice of quiche.

Every time I hear that word, I think back to a book from my youth — Real Men Don't Eat Quiche — a satirical poke at masculine stereotypes that was everywhere in the early 1980s. I'll be honest with you: I never read it. But that title stuck with me for forty-some years, and this morning it finally told me why.

One man's quiche is another man's breakfast casserole.

Same eggs. Same cheese. Same satisfying weight in your stomach on a rainy Wednesday morning. The only thing that changed was the word on the label — and somehow that word carried enough cultural baggage to make grown men defensive about what they put on their fork.

How many times in our lives do we let definitions define us?

In agriculture, we do this constantly. A "small farm" versus a "family operation." A "hog confinement" versus a "modern production facility." A "consultant" versus someone who couldn't keep a corporate job. The facts on the ground are identical. The perception shifts entirely based on the vocabulary someone else handed us.

I spent 25 years in an industry where I watched good ideas die because they got labeled wrong, and I watched mediocre ideas thrive because someone dressed them up in the right terminology. The quiche versus breakfast casserole divide isn't just a generational joke — it's a case study in how quickly we outsource our judgment to a word.

The lesson I took from my Tuesday morning quiche: be skeptical of the label, especially when it's making a decision for you. Ask what's actually in the dish before you decide whether real men eat it.

Turns out, real men eat whatever their wife brings them with a smile. And they're grateful for it.

Patio Pondering: Transparency Is Proven in the Records

After raising questions two weeks ago about why taxpayers of the former Northeast Allen Fire Territory have not yet seen the detailed financial accounts that were promised, I learned that the Indiana State Board of Accounts issued a subpoena requesting extensive documentation related to those records.

That development provides important context. Requests of this scope are not routine and typically indicate unresolved questions involving recordkeeping, classification, or compliance with required reporting standards. Until that process is complete, delays in releasing records may be understandable. Even so, taxpayers are still entitled to ask whether publicly available records align with basic accounting and transparency expectations.

As I review the transactions available online, two issues stand out.

First, the classification of labor-related payments.

Public records show nearly $66,000 in payments described as compensation for labor performed to reconcile or “fix” Fire Territory accounts. Under standard governmental accounting practice, labor compensation is required to be reported on Employment Compensation Reports. However, the Employment Compensation Reports filed for both 2024 and 2025 list only $15,000 in compensation and do not reflect the additional payments described elsewhere in the public records.

When questioned publicly, an explanation has been offered for how the payments were initially recorded. However, regardless of how the error occurred, the reporting inconsistency remains unresolved in the required Employment Compensation Reports.

This raises straightforward accounting questions:

• If these payments were compensation for labor, why do they not appear on the required compensation reports?

• If they were not compensation, under what classification were they paid?

• Where is that classification documented for public review?

Second, continued expenditures after dissolution.

The Northeast Allen Fire Territory was officially dissolved in 2023. Yet public records show expenditures recorded and paid in 2024 and 2025 against accounts tied to that dissolved entity. Dissolution ordinarily signals the end of spending authority, except for clearly defined and documented close-out activities.

To date, no clear public explanation or supporting documentation has been provided explaining why post-dissolution expenditures were authorized or how those expenditures align with statutory requirements. Public commentary has focused on criticisms of prior accounting practices, but those statements do not resolve the reporting and authorization questions reflected in the records themselves.

These are not allegations. They are accounting and governance questions rooted in publicly available records.

Transparency is not demonstrated through assurances, summaries, or slogans. It is demonstrated when classifications are consistent, reporting requirements are met, and documentation is available for independent review.

Taxpayers do not need speculation or interpretation. They need records that align with established accounting standards — and a clear explanation when they do not.

Until those questions are answered, claims of transparency and honesty remain untested by the very documents that should support them.

Patio Pondering: I Believe

While working on a project last week I let Spotify play something different. I landed on a sampling from the Stranger Things soundtrack. Then the "I Believe" theme came through my speakers and something happened I didn't expect. A tear ran down my cheek.

It caught me off guard. But then I sat and listened.

Because that song didn't just play. It sent me back to that ending basement scene with that unspoken question. Do you still believe?

And the answer that came back surprised me with how fast it arrived. Yeah. I do. I believe in a lot of things.

I believe the sun coming up over the east field tomorrow morning means another chance to get it right. I believe that plans made at a kitchen table with honest people are worth more than polished strategies built in conference rooms. I believe the best conversations I've ever had happened leaning on a fence, not standing at a podium.

Here's what I think that song reminded me: belief isn't a feeling you wait on. It's a posture you choose. Hope isn't naïve. Hope is what serious people carry when the path isn't clear yet.

So today, I want to ask you. What do you still believe in?

Write it down. Say it out loud. Don't wait for a Stranger Things soundtrack to remind you.

Patio Pondering: Willie the Wildcat, a Microphone, and The Pressure Vessel

Mornings on the patio are different now that our youngest son has his driver's license. No more regular trips to the school drop-off line for me. This morning started with a bright sunrise as I poured my coffee, sat down, and did what I probably shouldn't do before the first sip: started scrolling.

After a click or two, my feed was full of Coach Jerome Tang, Kansas State's coach, and commentary on a two-minute postgame press conference that's now everywhere. After a 29-point loss to Cincinnati at home, with students wearing paper bags in the stands, he told the media his players don't deserve to wear the uniform. That very few of them would be back next year.

As a K-State alum, it's hard to watch. But what really got me wasn't the press conference. It was the 113 days before it.

Just ten days earlier, after a 34-point loss to Iowa State, Coach Tang told the media he wasn't disappointed. He was proud of his players' effort. Thirty-four-point loss. Proud of the effort. Then a 29-point loss and the whole thing comes apart.

For months, K-State fans watched two realities run side by side. The narrative at the podium: praise, progress, belief. And what was happening on the court: talent that wasn't being utilized, players who weren't functioning as a unit, performances that didn't match the story being told. The fans could see it. Every game, the gap got wider.

I've been there. Not in an arena. In a conference room.

I've sat in meetings listening to a supervisor praise the team, talk about great progress, paint a beautiful picture while my colleagues and I are giving each other side eyes. The "what is he talking about?" looks. No words needed. Because the people hearing the toxic positivity can usually see right through the fancy words and theatrics. They know something's not right in River City.

And I've been on the other side too. I've stood in meetings and said, "The project is going well. The plan is working. The team is doing a great job." Smile. Nod. Move on. Until the day it's, "Um... we've got a problem." And the building that had been smoldering for weeks couldn't hide behind fresh paint anymore.

That's not a leadership pivot. That's a pressure vessel failing.

Honest assessment isn't cruelty. It's respect. It's trusting the people around you enough to close the gap between what you're saying and what they can see, before someone else closes it for you.

If you're leading something right now and you can feel that gap opening, close it. Close it today. It doesn't get easier tomorrow. It just gets more expensive.

Coffee's cold. Sun's up. Go have an honest conversation with somebody.

Making It Official — Does This Mean I've Grown Up?

Patio Pondering started with me sitting on the patio on a sunny September morning in 2024. No business plan. No strategy. Just coffee, quiet, and a need to gather my thoughts after a career change I didn't see coming.

I started writing. Then I started talking first to myself, then into a microphone. For seventeen months, the writing and the podcast gave me a place to think out loud about an industry I've spent my whole life in. They opened conversations I didn't expect and reminded me what I'm actually good at.

Yesterday I filed paperwork with the Indiana Secretary of State and formed Patio Pondering LLC.

The writing isn't going anywhere, if anything, I've leaned into it more. The podcast is growing and I'm investing in it. But I'm also putting more emphasis into swine nutrition consulting; helping producers and feed teams make better decisions when the margins are tight and the answers aren't obvious. That's the work I've done for 25 years. Patio Pondering just finally gave it a home.

Forming the LLC was me making it official and being honest with myself. I spent a long time thinking I was just writing and podcasting while I figured out the next move. Turns out I was building one.

I won't pretend filing an LLC was dramatic. You fill out a form, pay a fee, and the state sends you a confirmation. But there's something about putting your name on a thing that makes it real in a different way, the same way putting a deed on a piece of ground feels different than just working it.

It started on the patio. It still starts there most mornings. The coffee's the same. The questions just got bigger.

Patio Pondering LLC — Clear Thinking for Complex Agriculture.

Patio Pondering: The Narrative Said They Lost. They WON!

Last night I watched a battle between two top 15 basketball teams as Purdue trekked across the Midwest to play Nebraska. It was a rollercoaster ride as Purdue came steaming out of the gate and built a double-digit lead before Nebraska hit their first field goal. The first half and the start of the second half went Purdue's way, with a 22-point lead at one point. But I'm a Purdue fan, I knew Nebraska would not stop fighting and they did as I expected.

Purdue began to struggle with their jump shots and the Cornhuskers started hitting from just about everywhere on the court. The lead fell to single digits then back to double digits with less than three minutes left. Purdue's poor shooting and Nebraska's grittiness came together to force the game to overtime.

Overtime was a fight with Nebraska finally taking their first lead of the game but Purdue prevailed by three points in the end.

As I scrolled through X and Facebook to read reactions I was not surprised. The narrative wrote itself within minutes: Purdue almost chokes again. Typical Purdue with no killer instinct. Painter can't coach with a lead. And much more.

I started to feel the pull to pile on, talking about the choke, but I didn't. Side note, this is where my sobriety pays off — I resisted the urge to comment. I thought about the game I just watched and tried to remove myself from the emotional rollercoaster I had just endured.

I wrote this on X after sitting and absorbing what happened in Lincoln:

Nebraska is a top 10 team, they're good. Plus, they were playing at home. This isn't as much of an almost choke by Purdue as Nebraska just being a great team at home.

As I looked closer, I saw a few others that saw the forest for the trees. Here is one I shared:

It'll be easy for people to point to Purdue blowing a 21-point lead, and a 14-point lead with 2:45 to go, but don't forget that they WON…AT NEBRASKA!!! It got hairy at the end, but that's still an ELITE win. Never apologize for winning…especially against Top 10 teams. – Brandon Ramsey @BRamseyKSR

What so many people lost in their speed to criticize Purdue for their 22-point collapse is that Purdue had just won on the road in the Big Ten on a Tuesday in February against a top 10 team. Brian Neubert of GoldandBlack.com contends that the Big Ten Championship is won on Tuesdays.

This morning as I thought about the comments and reactions, I thought about how many times in our work lives we fail to see the forest for the trees by taking the easy path and repeating the easy narrative.

We've all heard them and even participated: That new guy won't make it. She only got promoted because of who she knows. That farm will never make it work with that system. They'll never hit those numbers. We don't do it that way here.

Convenient narratives formed from fragments instead of facts.

Just like last night's game, reality is usually more complicated. Wins rarely look perfect. Progress often feels messy. And context matters more than we care to admit.

Maybe the better question isn't "How did they almost blow it?" but rather "What did they actually accomplish?"

How often do we miss the win because we're fixated on how uncomfortable the ending felt?

Patio Pondering: What do you mean you didn't know?

It is the day after the Super Bowl; I already made a trip to the meat locker to pick up venison and am now enjoying a strong cup of coffee as I prepare to attack my to-do-list.  Not one thing on that list has anything to do with football or halftime shows, I have real problems to address.

We have to file a small claims case in a neighboring county. Last week I prepared the filing document, affidavits, and gathered every original record I thought I would need. Before making the drive to the county seat, I double-checked the clerk’s website to make sure I had everything in order. I even visited a Notary Public to make an affidavit I prepared “official.”

According to the information available online, I did.

Last Friday standing at the counter, I began handing the clerk my paperwork. She looked through it, then paused.

“Where are all the other copies?”

What copies?

“Oh, you have to have three copies per defendant,” she said, pointing to a one-page instruction sheet sitting behind the counter. “Just like it says on this information document.”

I asked why that document was not available on the website.

She replied, without hesitation, “We keep this here so we can control it.”

What?

It is 2026.

Now I get to make another trip to the courthouse to file the same paperwork—this time with the correct number of copies.

Could I have called the clerk’s office ahead of time and asked? Yes. That part is on me.

But here is what keeps nagging at me.

On balance, I can find my property tax bill, review it line by line, and pay it in full entirely online. No counter. No clerk. No printed copies. No special instructions held behind glass. A process involving significant money, legal obligation, and public accountability runs smoothly at the speed of the internet.

So, what is different in the Clerk of Courts office?

Why can a one-page PDF not be posted for anyone to access?

What exactly is being controlled?

Time, it turns out, is not. Mine is spent making another trip. Certainty is not controlled either; that comes only after a mistake is made. What is controlled is information—and information is power.

Most people will eventually figure it out. Some will make extra trips. Some will take time off work. Some may give up altogether. The system works, but it works unevenly, and quietly favors those with flexible schedules, experience navigating bureaucracy, or simply more patience.

None of this is dramatic. No one raised their voice. No rule was broken.

But when basic information is treated as something to be guarded rather than shared, it is worth asking whether control has slowly replaced service—and whether we notice the difference until we are standing at the counter.

Patio Pondering: Pork, The Pyramid, Your Plate

I want pork to succeed. Ever since I bought my first pig from Howard Faulstick in Monroeville, Indiana, in 1987, I have wanted pork to succeed. From those first pigs forward, I have spent my career believing I could help make pork succeed.

That belief is exactly why I struggle with the mixed signals our industry continues to send.

I listen to industry leaders talk about promoting pork and increasing pork sales. That word choice matters. Sales are not the same as consumption, and they are not the same as demand. Much of the current conversation centers on positioning pork at the center of the plate, competing directly with beef steak.

If that is truly the goal, then we need to be honest about what wins that battle.

Beef does not dominate the grill or the steakhouse because it is the lowest-cost protein. It wins because consumers expect a rewarding eating experience and are willing to pay for it. Marbling matters. Consistency matters. Confidence matters.

Today, the typical pork loin contains roughly three percent intramuscular fat, while the high-quality beef featured in steakhouses ranges from five to more than eleven percent. At the same time, we continue to reward pig farmers for leanness, not marbling. We talk about taste, but we still pay for something else. Add to that the consistency of meat color beef delivers, compared with the ongoing challenges we face with pork loins.

We are still living with the legacy of Pork. The Other White Meat. That campaign solved a problem of its time, but the lean premiums it reinforced never really went away. Our messaging has shifted toward flavor, experience, and center-of-the-plate relevance, yet our incentives have not kept pace. We say one thing and pay for another.

This contradiction deepens when paired with the continual push that producers must always be the lowest-cost option. Cost discipline matters. No one disputes that. But lowest cost does not equate to quality. You cannot ask producers to optimize solely for efficiency, cheapest inputs, and maximum leanness, then expect a premium eating experience to appear at retail or foodservice.

Center-of-the-plate relevance is not won by shaving pennies.

It is not surprising, then, that much of our promotion leans into applications where pork is effectively disguised—carnitas, tacos, bowls, pulled pork. These are important markets, and pork performs well in them. But they are also forgiving formats. They rely on seasoning, sauces, and preparation methods that cover for inconsistency rather than expose excellence.

A pork chop on a plate has no place to hide.

I recently heard the argument that per-capita consumption is no longer a useful metric. The explanation was that total pork consumption continues to grow, even if per-capita numbers remain flat.

That deserves scrutiny.

If per-capita consumption is flat while the population grows, then we are not creating new demand—we are simply feeding more people. And if a growing pork-eating Hispanic population is not pushing per-capita consumption higher, we should be willing to ask where pork is losing relevance elsewhere.

Metrics are not the problem. What they reveal is.

The timing matters. New nutrition guidelines put pork in a strong position to grow demand. The health narrative has shifted. Demographics should be helping. The door is open.

The question is whether we have a plan to walk through it.

If we continue to produce pale, poorly marbled pork while telling consumers to “taste what pork can do for you,” promotion will be forced to work harder and harder to sell around the product instead of with it. Nutrition creates permission. Taste creates repeat purchases. Incentives determine whether we ever get there.

I want this industry to be bullish—but I want that bull to be Babe the Big Blue Ox, not Ferdinand. Babe pulls real weight. Ferdinand is pleasant, but he does not move the load.

If pork is going to win at the center of the plate, it will not be because of word games, reframed metrics, or lowest-cost absolutism. It will be because we finally align genetics, production systems, incentives, and promotion around delivering a consistently great eating experience.

That is how demand is built.

Everything else is just keeping pace.

Patio Pondering: Inherited Lessons, Real Education

This morning, I am preparing to attend the Ohio Pork Congress and my day is starting earlier than usual. I do not have to be Drop Off Line Dad so I can enjoy my coffee while watching the sun start its daily trek across the Winter Sky.

While my wife was watching television last week, I was scrolling through social media and came across a series of videos featuring stylized Sesame Street characters break-dancing to Safety Dance. It was edgy. Definitely not the Bert and Ernie I grew up with in the 1970s. And yet, I found myself tapping my foot, smiling, oddly comfortable with it.

Not long after, I saw a separate video discussing the stigma that still exists around attending community and junior colleges.

Those two ideas stuck together longer than I expected.

The Sesame Street characters were clearly no longer confined to their original role as puppets on a children’s television network. They had evolved, been reinterpreted, repackaged for a different moment in time. And while it was different from what I remembered, it didn’t feel wrong. It just felt… different.

That reaction surprised me, because when it came to post-secondary education, I wasn’t always so flexible.

I was raised with very clear ideas about what constituted a “real” education. I remember chastising high school classmates who chose to attend the commuter college in Fort Wayne, quietly dismissing their choice as settling for something less. You can imagine what my internal monologue sounded like when I headed to West Lafayette to attend what I believed was a “real” college.

Those views didn’t appear out of nowhere. They were inherited.

My grandmother earned a four-year degree in the 1930s to become a teacher, then returned for her master’s degree in 1958. Education mattered deeply to her. That value was passed down without question. My mother picked up that banner and carried it forward with conviction, pushing my sister and me toward “real” colleges and supporting me as I went on to earn my Ph.D.

The system worked. The outcomes reinforced the belief. And with success came judgment—quietly at first, then comfortably.

Over time, though, my views on post-secondary education have matured. Not because I value education any less, but because I’ve come to see it with more nuance than the rigid framework I inherited. Experience has a way of doing that. So does parenthood.

Today, as I consider the paths available to my own children—including the possibility of trade school—I find myself far more focused on fit, purpose, and opportunity than on labels. The value of education hasn’t diminished for me; the hierarchy around it has.

So, as I sit watching Bert and Ernie dance to Safety Dance, I’m struck by how easily I’ve accepted their evolution, and how long it took me to fully examine my own. Familiar things change. Sometimes they grow beyond the boxes we built for them. And sometimes, with a little time and reflection, we do too.

Patio Pondering: Still Waiting for Transparency

Over the past few weeks, I have received messages from Springfield Township citizens asking whether there have been any updates regarding the Fire Territory fund irregularities I wrote about earlier this year. Each time, I have had to give the same disappointing answer: there have been none.

The last update I am aware of came in September, when taxpayers were told the books would be shared publicly after a State Board of Accounts audit was completed. Since then, there has been silence. Despite repeated requests from taxpayers and township officials, the detailed financial records remain unavailable for public review.

This continuing lack of transparency raises uncomfortable but reasonable questions. Seven months have passed since the Springfield Township Advisory Board hired an attorney to examine how Fire Territory funds were managed. Nine months since the State Board of Accounts began its audit. Nearly two years since the Fire Territory was dissolved. Yet taxpayers still cannot see a clear, detailed accounting of where millions of dollars designated for fire protection went.

What makes this situation even more frustrating is that taxpayers continue to pay for accounting work related to these same accounts. Accounts that multiple sources have said were previously well maintained and in good order. We are now paying for work that, by all appearances, should have been straightforward to complete months ago.

I have already documented specific, questionable transactions in previous letters. More than $64,000 in “personal services” payments tied to a defunct entity. Vendor names that changed in official records after questions were raised. A $360,000 office purchase using funds designated for fire equipment. These are not hypothetical concerns. They are documented, unresolved issues. So why is basic transparency taking so long? What could reasonably justify nearly a year of delay when the public has a legal right to review how its tax dollars were spent?

Every month that passes without transparency erodes public trust a little more. The citizens of northeast Allen County paid for fire protection. They deserve to see where that money went. They deserve clear answers to the questions that have been raised. And they deserve those answers now, not at some undefined point in the future.

Taxpayers should not have to wonder whether the books they eventually see will tell the complete story. Nor should they be left to speculate about why basic financial transparency, something required by Indiana law, has become so difficult to achieve.

This is not about political disagreements or personal conflicts. It is about accountability, transparency, and whether those entrusted with managing public funds are doing so appropriately. The longer this process continues without clear answers, the more justified citizens are in questioning how their tax dollars are being handled.

I remain hopeful that full transparency is coming soon. But it should not take this long.

Patio Pondering: Friday Night Fundamentals

Old Man Winter has a tight grip on us right now.  The morning dawned with flurries and more cold. As I enjoyed my coffee gazing over white landscape I thought back to last Friday night’s girls basketball game at our local high school.

Our team has two really good players and a supporting cast that plays basketball. I grew up watching great girls basketball in the '80s and I appreciate good basketball—I'm from Indiana after all. As with most games I attend, I am upbeat, ready for out team to win. Unfortunately, as the end of the first quarter neared, I realized our girls were in trouble.

As the game got further and further out of hand for our girls, I watched a different game unfold. Not the one on the scoreboard, but the one in the fundamentals. I saw one of our talented players standing open under the basket, calling for the ball, while her teammate picked up her dribble in the corner with nowhere to go. I watched lazy passes sail out of bounds. I saw players forget to block out on rebounds, letting smaller opponents grab second chances. Double dribbles. Traveling. Simple mistakes that compounded into a 20-point deficit.

The frustrating part wasn't the score. It was watching a great player get stymied because her teammates couldn't execute the basics. All the talent in the world doesn't matter if you can't get the ball where it needs to go.

I thought about that on Saturday morning while reading through the latest crop planning commentary. "Get the fundamentals right." I've lost count of how many times I've read that phrase in the past month. Agronomists and analysts alike are peppering their advice with it as we prepare for another crop year with prices below production costs. It's good advice, but what does it actually mean?

In swine nutrition, I see the same pattern. Operations chasing the latest feed additive, the newest genetic line, the technology that promises a 5% improvement—all while their basics are broken. Inconsistent feed delivery. Poor water quality. Ventilation that's been "good enough" for years. You can bring in the best genetics available, but if those pigs can't breathe right or drink clean water, you're that player standing open under the basket while your teammate fumbles in the corner.

We love the magic bullets. The transfer player who's going to change everything. The new hybrid. The precision ag platform. The next best thing. And sometimes those things help—but only if the foundation is solid. A great player can't score if she never gets the ball. A great hybrid can't perform if your soil health is shot.

Here's what I saw Friday night that stuck with me: the two talented players on our team started playing frustrated basketball by the second half. They knew what needed to happen, but they couldn't make it happen alone. Regardless of how hard they tried, they could not overcome and you could see it in their demeanor. That's what broken fundamentals do—they don't just limit performance, they kill morale.

As many of us in the Midwest and in ag are watching basketball while making plans for 2025 crop year, maybe we all should take a few moments to review our foundations. Do we have the fundamentals "right" regardless of what team or business we lead? Before we chase the next thing, before we invest in the magic bullet, before we bring in that transfer player—what fundamental are we avoiding? What basic thing keeps our best people standing under the basket, calling for a ball that never comes?

Patio Pondering: Different Quiets

This morning’s Patio Pondering came a little later than usual. I was playing handyman, making a trip to Menards for parts to fix a leaking toilet. New bolts, a new gasket, everything cleaned up and back together. As I headed downstairs to turn the water back on, I noticed something else.

The sump pit was full.

That alone wasn’t alarming. But when I reached in to check the pump, the water was warm. The water isn’t supposed to be warm.

The toilet leak was fixed, but I also discovered the sump pump had seized and wasn’t working anymore. The silver lining was timing. I found it now, before snowmelt or heavy rain would have really needed it.

The sump pit wasn’t alarming. It was just full. Quietly.

It reminded me that not all quiet is the same. Some quiet is peace. Some quiet is focus. And some quiet is a signal that something isn’t working the way it used to.

You see this with livestock. A down ear. A calf not quite moving with the herd. A dullness in the eye. Small things that don’t set off alarms but catch your attention if you’re used to watching closely.

The warm water in the sump pit was a quiet warning.
And not all quiet means the same thing.

I’ll be thinking about that on my way back to Menards.

Patio Pondering: How Dare You Use a Thesaurus

I have a distinct memory of sitting in Ms. Butler’s English class in B-hall at Northrop High School and watching her publicly chastise Carol Sibole for cheating on her paper. Carol was accused of having someone else write her essay. When she tried to defend herself, she said something that has stayed with me for more than forty years:

“I used a thesaurus to use better words to make it sound better for you.”

There are not many moments from high school that still surface uninvited. This one does. Not because of the accusation itself, but because of what it revealed. Carol had been quietly placed in a box—the poor writer box—and the moment she tried to climb out of it, she was slapped back down. Her attempt to improve herself was met not with encouragement, but with suspicion, contempt, and public embarrassment.

For context, Ms. Butler was an old-school, hard-nosed teacher of English and Economics. She was strict. She had high expectations. And when she decided to discipline someone, she did it herself, in her classroom kingdom, with a kind of reaper-like harshness that cut to the bone. When she went after Carol, the room went dead quiet. Everyone understood the lesson being delivered. You could see Carol deflate with each sentence, even as she tried to explain herself. Even now, I can still see and feel the scene unfold.

Looking back on that moment now, I don’t see it as a failure of teaching or leadership. I see it as the first time I watched a system wield a sledgehammer to put someone back where it was comfortable keeping them. Carol didn’t break a rule. She violated an expectation. And in rigid systems, that’s the greater crime. Self-improvement becomes threatening when it shows up where it wasn’t authorized.

I’ve spent more than twenty-five years inside organizations that talk endlessly about growth. We plaster walls with values statements. We hold annual reviews filled with improvement goals. We send people to seminars, workshops, certifications, and lunch-and-learns. On paper, development is celebrated. But I’ve also watched what happens when someone actually changes—when they start to think differently, speak differently, or bring skills that don’t fit neatly inside their job description. That’s when the system tightens. That’s when people are nudged back into “their lane,” reminded of “their role,” and quietly taught that ambition is welcome only if it stays predictable.

Leaders in most systems don’t succeed by dismantling these structures. They succeed by learning how to operate them efficiently. They master the carrot—praise, bonuses, titles, development plans—while keeping a firm grip on the unspoken sledgehammer of stay in your lane. Performance is rewarded. Transformation is not. Growth is applauded right up until it challenges assumptions about who someone is allowed to be.

I know this pattern because I’ve tested it myself. I’ve had leaders praise my performance and talk about development—right up until I asked how I could help beyond the narrow lane I was assigned. That’s when the conversation stopped. Just do your job as well as you can. It wasn’t said harshly, but the message was clear: perform, but don’t expand; contribute, but don’t cross boundaries. I wasn’t being corrected for poor performance. I was being reminded where I belonged.

Our systems are full of the outward signs of mobility. Annual reviews promise growth. Training programs and self-help systems tell people how to become better. LinkedIn alone will bury you in inspiration before breakfast. And yet we spend almost no time confronting the entrenchment tools we rely on to keep people in their place—the role policing, the early labels, the assumptions formed once and never revisited. Those tools don’t just slow growth. They quietly train people to stop trying.

I learned that lesson watching Carol stand in front of a classroom.

I’ve watched it play out for decades since.

And at this point, I’m no longer willing to pretend it’s accidental.