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.

Patio Pondering: See Something, Say Something

This morning, mist is rising from the pond and dew covers the patio. You can feel fall in the air, even though the sun’s rays are warm and the sky promises another beautiful day here in Northeast Indiana. My coffee is extra strong to kick me into gear for the end of the week.

See Something, Say Something.
This phrase started as a public safety slogan encouraging people to report suspicious activity, but it’s found its way into other parts of life: bullying, harassment, and even workplace safety.

On Monday, while enduring the drop-off line at Leo Jr./Sr. High School, I watched three elementary-aged girls jump out of a car in the middle of the high school parking lot and walk toward the elementary school. While this technically is not allowed, it happens every day. What caught my attention was that the girls walked directly behind a cement truck pouring concrete for the football complex. My heart skipped a beat as they disappeared into the truck’s blind zone in the dark, pre-dawn light.

They made it safely to the sidewalk, but that image stuck with me.

Then on Wednesday morning, it happened again: a young boy hopped out of a vehicle in nearly the same spot and wandered behind another working cement truck, completely unaware of the danger just feet away. I snapped a quick photo to capture what I saw, partly to make sense of why this was still happening.

See Something, Say Something.
This time, I did.

I sent a message to the superintendent and school administrators describing what I’d seen, along with the photo showing the boy walking behind the truck. I hoped they would speak with the construction company and tighten safety around the area.

To my surprise, later that day the school sent out an automated message reminding parents that elementary students were not to be dropped off at the high school, and that all drop-offs needed to occur in designated zones.

I saw something. I said something. They did something.

How many times in our lives have we muttered, “Someone should say something,” and then done nothing more? The same silence that lets unsafe acts go unnoticed in a parking lot can also let poor decisions or toxic behavior grow unchecked in the workplace. What lessons do we teach our children, and our teams, when we choose comfort over courage, silence over safety?

Patio Pondering: When the Script Sinks the Ship

This morning was supposed to be frosty, but the temps didn’t dip quite far enough. Now the sun is bouncing off the patio, and it promises to be another beautiful day.

I wish I could say my last public speaking experience was just as sunny.

I’ve been working hard to improve my presentation skills. Between the podcast, YouTube videos on communication, and some solo practicing, I’ve felt more confident in my delivery lately. So when I had to speak in front of the county plan commission about a proposed building site I opposed, I thought I had a strong game plan.

My opening was crafted to show both my credibility, with over 25 years in livestock feeding and production, and my local investment as both a farmer and landowner. I wasn’t there just to say "I don’t like it." I had four concise, fact-based points. I’d even woven in the new county wheel tax to strengthen one of my arguments. I thought I was ready.

And then I stepped up to the podium, and it all fell apart.

It started with the microphone being off. That threw me for a second, but the real problem was my approach. I had written out a full script to read.

Here’s the thing. I’m not a read-the-script guy. I do best when I speak naturally, using key points and phrases to guide me. I’m also a walker when I present. I move, I engage. Being anchored to a podium with a sheet of paper in front of me only made things worse. I stumbled. I repeated myself. When I looked up to make eye contact, I lost my place. The confident, prepared communicator I’ve been working to become? He didn’t show up.

That script, meant to support me, became an anchor that pulled me under. And I know I’m not the only one who’s been there.

Still, it showed me something important. If I want to round out my speaking skills, especially for formal settings like public hearings, I need to practice being effective even when I’m stuck behind a podium. That discomfort is a sign of where I still need to grow.

But here’s the other lesson I won’t soon forget: important moments aren’t the time to experiment with unfamiliar tools. Trying something new, like reading from a full script, might be a good skill to build, but it needs to be practiced in lower-stakes environments first. The plan commission wasn’t the place to test-drive a new approach.

Sometimes the tools we think will help us end up tripping us up, especially when they go against how we naturally work. There’s a fine line between pushing ourselves to grow and forcing ourselves into a mold that breaks us down.

How do you balance preparation with staying true to your natural style? When has a “helpful tool” done more harm than good?

Patio Pondering: They Cared

This morning’s view from the patio is beautiful. We finally have a morning with little dew and no fog. The sun’s rays are reflecting off the high clouds, giving a warm red glow to the landscaping as I sip my coffee.

My mind is full of thoughts—appropriate wedding attire, reading comprehension, following road signs and rules of the road, communication. On top of that, I’m trying to complete a visa application, and between the poor English translation and contradictory instructions, I’m not sure where my day will take me.

I attended a wedding this weekend and had time to observe a lot. I could probably write a week’s worth of Patio Ponderings just on what’s considered “appropriate wedding attire” these days. But one memory stands out: when we spoke with the bride and groom as they mingled through the crowd.

Both were genuinely happy to see us, but each mentioned how worried they were that they wouldn’t have time to talk with everyone. Their interactions with me and my son were simple, sincere, and refreshing.

They were refreshing because they showed one thing—they cared.

They were happy we came. They wanted everyone to feel welcome. And they wanted us to have a good time.

How often do you leave a meeting or conversation making others feel that same way—that you cared, that you really wanted to help, and weren’t just full of the “right” words?

Patio Pondering: Bullied by a Handshake

This morning dawned with the promise of another great day here in Northeast Indiana. Indian summer is in full swing, the fall flowers around the patio are bursting with color, and my coffee is hot as the sun begins to warm everything.

Several weeks ago, I had an encounter that stirred old memories I cannot seem to shake.
Have you ever been bullied by a handshake?

I have, most recently at a small public meeting with about ten people in attendance. As I entered to find a seat, a man I knew by reputation extended his hand. His grip locked on like I was a lifeline. When I answered his question about my name with “just a concerned citizen,” the pressure grew tighter, almost punishing. Now, I am a big man, but I was becoming uncomfortable with the strength of that vice-like connection.

After I finally wrenched my hand free, I gave him my name. His response? “That wasn’t so hard, was it.”

I knew his move. I had seen it before. It wasn’t a greeting; it was intimidation, a show of dominance wrapped in the disguise of a Midwestern handshake. And I have been down that road before in the business world.

Early in my career, before a Swine Training Meeting, I was warned about a particular salesman and his infamous handshake. Unfortunately, the warnings did not prepare me for the crafty way he pulled me into his death grip. His grip was worthy of a professional arm wrestler, and he yanked me into his personal space. My heart rate jumped, sweat started to rise, and I felt cornered.

He finally released me after what felt like minutes, though it was only seconds. I tried to focus on my presentation, but the encounter stuck with me—partly because of the pain in my hand, but more because of how inappropriate it was. This handshake went well beyond the “firm and strong” we are taught as kids growing up in the Midwest.

As I reflect on both of these handshakes, it is clear the intent was the same: to intimidate, to show dominance under the cover of a simple greeting. In reality, they did not win respect. They only hardened me against them.

Leadership and professionalism are not just shown in big decisions. They are revealed in small moments too. A handshake can welcome or it can wound. One builds connection. The other erodes it.

How about you—have you ever experienced a handshake, or another small gesture, that was less about connection and more about control?

Patio Pondering: Two Conversations, Two Outcomes

This morning, I was greeted with a “temporary shutdown” message from the elevator where I planned to deliver soybeans. Because of this delay, I can sit with my coffee and watch the sun rise over the patio. It gives me time to think about two very different conversations I had yesterday.

Yesterday I had a conversation with a young friend about the same age as my eldest children, though she’s really more like a daughter to me. It was the kind of conversation that leaves you energized. She is in her second year of work after earning a professional degree, and she is absolutely rocking it. Toward the end of our visit, I asked her, “What in your upbringing helped you grow into the professional you are today? What did your parents and our circle of friends do that helped shape you and your peers into adults who are working, buying houses, and building lives?”

That question stuck with me because it is one I ask myself often when I think about the “children” in our friend group. For the most part, they are contributing, thriving, and adding to the world around them—starting careers, buying houses, raising children, and even saving for retirement.

Later in the day, I had another conversation with a neighbor. This one revolved around some of their family members who are facing real struggles: legal troubles, joblessness, cycles of hardship. They described causes like poor parenting choices, lack of accountability in youth, and consequences that compound over time.

The stark differences in those two conversations hit me this morning. These weren’t stories from strangers; they were people I know, families that share roots not far from my own. And yet the outcomes for their children look worlds apart.

It leaves me wondering: how do families, starting from similar roots and experiences, raise children who walk such different paths? And maybe the bigger question—what can each of us do, day by day, to tilt the balance toward responsibility, contribution, and hope for the next generation?

Patio Pondering: When Words Trip on the Stage

This morning on the patio, coffee in hand, I’m watching the mist drift off the pond. Soybean harvest started for us yesterday, and we’re gearing up for a busy week.

While working in the office and shop, I’ve been thinking about how much time I’ve spent sharpening my presentation and interviewing skills. Between watching YouTube videos from speaking coaches, listening to other presenters, and preparing for my podcast interviews, I’m trying to improve how I come across in public. Because of that, my ears are more tuned in than they used to be. I notice when a speaker is smooth, and I notice when they’re not.

This past weekend at a marching band competition, the PA announcer struggled. They stumbled over names. They tripped over prepared lines. At one point, they nearly forgot to announce some bands during the award ceremony. It was uncomfortable to listen to, not because of style differences, but because it was obvious they hadn’t practiced.

What struck me is that none of this was a surprise. The names, the script, the schedule—all of it was known well in advance. With just a little preparation—circling tough pronunciations, rehearsing transitions, reading through the band introductions—it could have gone much smoother. Preparation doesn’t mean simply reading word for word. It means being familiar enough with the material to deliver it naturally, without the audience wincing at stumbles.

I actually felt sorry for the announcer, because I’ve been there. Standing in front of a crowd isn’t easy, and I know how it feels to struggle with words. But it was also a reminder to myself: when we put our face or our voice in front of people, preparation is the difference between credibility and cringe.

So here’s what I’m pondering today: how do you prepare when your words are about to carry beyond the patio?

Patio Pondering: When Standing Out Breaks the Picture

This morning, I hit the patio well before sunrise. Between an early alarm and the slower crawl of dawn, I beat the sun out of bed. It was a bachelor weekend with my youngest son. We got some things done around the farm, and on Saturday, I took in a marching band competition where my son’s band took top honors.

Over the past three years of being a marching band parent, there has been one thing I have struggled with—something I have noticed again and again, talked over with my wife more than once, but never put into words until now.

As I sat there in the stands this weekend, watching another round of performances, that same thing caught my eye once more: a male member of the color guard dressed differently than the rest, not as part of the theme, but in a way that visually stood apart. I do not know the reason behind the costume choice, but I do know this—it distracted me. It pulled my attention away from the flow of the performance. I found myself thinking again about how much the judging criteria in marching band emphasize uniformity of style and ensemble cohesiveness.

This is not about gender. Just like no one bats an eye at a male nurse or a female firefighter anymore, a boy in the guard is not the issue. The issue is when anyone, regardless of who they are, stands out visually in a way that breaks the unity of the team.

To be fair, there are times when dressing one guard member differently enhances the show. A villain in red and black. A soloist in blue representing water. Those are purposeful design choices that add to the story. But when it is simply a visual inconsistency without clear context, it can undercut what the band is working so hard to present.

That got me thinking about other areas of life, particularly business.

I could not help but think about times when a team’s effectiveness was hurt by individuality—when someone insisted on standing out at the very moment cohesiveness was needed.

We have all been there, when someone says something and you mentally shake your head, thinking, “Oh no… why did they say that?” One sentence, one decision, one off-note that pulls the whole team off balance.

Business is not always the place for standing out. Sometimes, what is needed most is message discipline. One off-script comment can tank a deal or blow up weeks of planning.

It happens in family life, too. We build routines, traditions, and expectations—not to stifle individuality, but to create rhythm and stability. And when one person constantly pulls in a different direction, the load gets heavier for everyone else.

Sure, there is a time for standing out. But there is also a time to blend in—for the sake of the group, the goal, or the message.

Marching band gets this right. They teach our kids that excellence does not always come from the soloist in the spotlight. Sometimes, it is found in the line that moves perfectly in sync, the color guard that spins as one, the unified design that tells a story without distraction.

And this morning, as the sun rose slowly behind the treetops, that lesson settled in. Whether on the field, at the office, or around the kitchen table, there are times when strength lies in showing up in alignment, not to disappear, but to help the team shine.

Sometimes the strongest note… is the one that fits the chord.

Patio Pondering: When Keeping Your Word Backfires

The weather forecasters were right: we had heavy fog this morning. The fog was so thick our schools delayed then canceled school. The sun finally burned off the moisture and the day is beautiful.

Yesterday as I was working on a project, I had to review a contract that had been cancelled. I could not find a great reason for the cancellation, so I contacted the cancelling party to ask why they chose to walk away. What they said threw me for a loop.

In our discussion they shared that my client had fulfilled all the requirements of the contract—every single one. When pressed, they finally said:
“They paid me what they owed, but they should have paid me more because conditions changed.”

The funny thing? This is the third contract termination I’ve reviewed with a similar story: the agreement was fulfilled, but one side was still unhappy.

None of these contracts had bonus provisions, no tiered payment structure based on profit, just a flat payment. Yet one side was mad—mad because the other side did exactly what they agreed to.

In two of the cases, my clients even offered more than the owners had received before, and still, the owners were upset they hadn’t gotten more. Frustration runs high on both sides.

It makes me wonder: if both sides meet the terms, but expectations shift after the ink is dry, what does “fair” really mean in a contract?

When have you been in this situation—on either side of the table?

Patio Pondering: Trust Before Training

This morning the sun is trying to break through the haze as I enjoy my coffee. I have several calls scheduled for the day but am taking a few moments to enjoy the sounds and peacefulness here on the patio.

When I sat down to write this morning’s Patio Pondering, I intended to focus on pork industry profitability, how pig farms are in a rare position to recoup lost equity with the unprecedented profits of autumn hogs. But as I sat there, I couldn’t stay with the numbers. A memory from years ago kept scrolling across my mind like a headline ticker, refusing to be ignored.

A new sales manager had come on board and was tasked with leading a fresh sales training program, a tough assignment for anyone. Part of his job was to give each team member an initial assessment on skills like communication, negotiation, and cold calling. Months later, after implementing new tools, he would reassess us to measure growth.

I was young in my career then, and when I received my initial assessment, I was crestfallen. The manager had never even met with me. His grades were based entirely on one person’s opinion, with no input from me or from colleagues who actually worked with me. Some scores were fair; others were so far off-base that I entered the training with a chip on my shoulder. I wasn’t the only one. Many of my teammates also questioned their value to the group after seeing how they had been graded. Without context, many of us questioned our value to the team. The missed opportunity wasn’t about toughness; it was about leadership, knowing your team well enough to recognize who needs context, who needs conversation, and who can run with blunt feedback.

The manager was a classic “High D” personality: direct, black-and-white, and uninterested in conversations he saw as unnecessary. To him, the assessment was nothing more than a baseline. To us, it felt like a judgment carved in stone. Instead of leaning into the training as a chance to grow, the team sat through the sessions distracted, grumbling about how wrong the scores were. What he thought was a starting line turned into a minefield.

Had the sales manager taken time for short, individual meetings with each of us to explain the assessment as only a starting point and to outline how the training was designed to build up weaker areas, the program could have been far more effective. A little context and recognition of different personalities at the beginning might have shifted frustration into buy-in. The company invested in a training program that never got traction, not because the tools were bad, but because trust was broken at the start.

The final blow came when he recycled those baseline assessments in our annual reviews. What had begun as a misguided shortcut ended as a failure of leadership, a failure to understand his team, and a waste of resources. Maybe this was a failure in leadership by the new sales manager, but maybe it was also a failure by the bosses who forced him to lead a new team and launch a new sales training program at the same time.

Looking back, the whole thing could have been avoided. A few conversations, tailored to the personalities on the team, could have changed the outcome entirely. Instead, a lack of awareness about who he was leading derailed the program before it even began. In the end, leadership starts with knowing the people you’re leading, then shaping your communication so each person can hear it in the way that makes sense to them.

Patio Pondering: Fewer Choices, Fewer Voices

On the heels of my writing about the comparisons between the 1980s and the 2020s for farmers and the ag economy, we get an announcement of a new joint venture in the feed industry. These kinds of moves are often praised for driving efficiency. Yet I can’t help but wonder—what do we lose in terms of diversity of ideas, products, and opportunities when agriculture becomes more consolidated?

Unlike the praise filling social media, my gut reaction was different. This isn’t good for rural America.

It’s not just this joint venture. It is the culmination of decades of consolidation, streamlining products, services, and opportunities. We’ve seen it in equipment, seed genetics, crop inputs, and now feed. The trend leaves fewer choices, fewer openings, and fewer voices in agriculture.

Another area that concerns me is the limiting of hiring opportunities in agriculture as companies consolidate. I regularly hear from AGvocates and universities about the abundance of career opportunities in this field. But if there are fewer companies and fewer production facilities, won’t there inevitably be fewer doors for students to walk through? And what about the unintended consequences of these mergers?

A friend raised a sobering question this morning: what happens if your name lands on a “do not hire” list at one of these giants? As mergers pile on mergers, does that shadow follow you through the entire industry? Could consolidation eventually make some people unemployable in agriculture?

As a scientist, I also worry about the impact on research and innovation. When consolidation limits competition, it often limits curiosity. We’ve already seen research squeezed at land-grant universities through tighter budgets, eliminated positions, and hiring freezes. Fewer paths to discovery mean fewer breakthroughs for agriculture’s future.

We like to celebrate efficiency in this business. We raise pigs and cattle with fewer inputs than ever before. But efficiency is a two-edged sword. The less we need, the fewer people it takes to get the job done. That can ripple through communities in ways that aren’t always visible at first.

Consolidation is not a new thing in agriculture. It has been happening since the start of the industrial revolution with equipment, inputs, and even farms. But at what point do we as an industry say enough is enough? When do we put our foot down to push for diversity of operations and suppliers, and try to keep some semblance of variety in perspectives and thought? I’d love to hear how others see the balance between efficiency and opportunity.

Patio Pondering: Will the 2020s Be a Repeat of the 1980s?

I wrote this on a Sunday morning as the rain tapped around the patio, steady and soft, while my coffee steamed in the cool September air. I’ve been thinking about the American farmer’s place in today’s economy. Everywhere I turn—podcasts, meetings, articles, interviews—the message shifts, but the tone is the same: someone is always to blame.

National ag broadcasters often point at monopolistic suppliers and buyers. Non-farm groups sneer that “stupid farmers” keep planting too much corn and soybeans. Industry experts scold us for not throwing our weight behind new industrial uses. The old “burning food for fuel” argument is raising its ugly head again, with proponents insisting, “If we just had 15% ethanol in gasoline, life would be great.” And in non-ag media, the finger points at politics: “You voted for Trump, so it’s your fault. Go bankrupt. Don’t take government handouts to save your stupid butts.”

The blame lands everywhere: on the farmers, on the politicians, on the multinationals. Yet somehow, it’s the farmer left standing in the middle, catching it from all sides.

Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don’t

Last winter, the experts were unanimous: “Why would anybody plant soybeans? There’s no money in it. Plant corn instead.” Pundits, consultants, and economists showed chart after chart proving how much better the economics looked for planting corn over other crops. So farmers listened. Across the Midwest, fields were planted to corn.

But here’s the kicker: did we really plant as much corn as USDA says we did? Their estimate of 99 million acres has plenty of people inside agriculture waving the BS flag. Pair that with an astronomical yield projection of 186.7 bushels per acre, and you’ve got numbers that feel more like wishful thinking than boots-on-the-ground reality, especially with widespread Southern Rust issues in Iowa and the historic lack of rain across parts of Illinois and much of the Eastern Corn Belt.

Yet those are the numbers the markets react to. Those are the numbers we get judged against. And those numbers drive prices lower, regardless of what’s actually happening in the fields, until the “final” yield numbers are published later and, in many cases, adjusted years afterward when the truth is finally known. By then, the crop has already been priced and sold.

But there’s another reality weighing on corn demand: there are simply fewer mouths to feed. Hog and cattle numbers in the U.S. are down, which means the domestic feed market isn’t pulling corn the way it has in the past. Yes, we may need less corn, but the hard question is, how do we get there? Farmers can’t just flip a switch and walk away from ground they’ve invested in, and the markets don’t exactly reward restraint. After all, the market doesn’t care about your farm, but your banker and your checkbook do.

So not only are farmers chastised for planting corn, but now they’re being buried under estimates many in ag don’t even believe are true. The decisions made in good faith—based on advice, economics, and agronomy—get turned into a double bind.

The System Stacks the Deck

Farmers live in a marketplace where profit margins are razor thin and power is concentrated in a few hands. Input suppliers dictate seed, fertilizer, and equipment costs. Processors and exporters control what we’re paid. Farmers carry the risk, but others set the rules.

And when talk turns to government support, another wave of criticism rolls in. Non-farmers call it welfare. Ag insiders shake their heads, saying the money will only line the pockets of Deere, Bayer, or fertilizer manufacturers, not the farmers themselves. The irony is brutal: when help is offered, we’re told it either proves we’re dependent or proves we’re fools because it only benefits the companies “leeching” off our operations.

Now you start to hear another line: “You voted for this, deal with it.” What’s happening in the ag economy didn’t magically begin on November 5, 2024. The foundations for today’s financial straits started years ago. Many can point to the long fingers of the COVID-19 pandemic as part of the cause.

To add to the challenges, most American farmers followed university advice to specialize and excel. The vast diversity that existed one or two generations ago is gone. Today, you’re either a crop farmer or a cattle rancher, with very little crossover. Few are doing both crops and livestock anymore.

The Harshest Blows Come From Within

Oddly enough, the comments that cut the deepest don’t come from non-ag journalists or political pundits. They come from inside agriculture itself. The advice sounds so matter-of-fact: “Treat it like a business. Make real business decisions.”

That sounds good on paper. But I was taught at Purdue that when you’re in a low- or no-profit situation, the right choice is to plant if you can cover variable costs, and deal with fixed costs later. That’s not sloppy business—it’s survival.

And any banker would say the same thing if a farmer customer walked into the office and said: “Corn and beans don’t pencil this year, so I’m not planting. You’ll just have to wait on my loan payments.” That conversation would go over like a lead balloon.

Then come the suggestions from fellow farmers: build bins (not something you pull off a few weeks before harvest), buy puts and calls (a good idea, but they require cash—something scarce on many farms), or sell excess equipment (a tough sell when the used equipment market is following profitability down, down, down). Unfortunately, these well-meaning suggestions are often unachievable.

The reality is that farmers don’t get the luxury of sitting out a season, nor the ability to quickly implement strategies that require forethought and timely execution.

The Human Cost

Behind all the noise are real families staring down loan payments, shrinking equity, and headlines predicting another wave of farm bankruptcies. Rural America knows too well that financial strain doesn’t just threaten land and equipment—it threatens lives. Suicide rates among farmers remain some of the highest of any profession.

Empathy is scarce in a system where farmers already carry all the risk. Instead of support, they often face ridicule—branded as bad business owners, accused of being nostalgic, or scolded for not following market signals. The 1980s farm crisis is remembered today mostly through old John Mellencamp ballads, Farm Aid concerts, or movies like The River and Country. Fewer and fewer farmers actually lived it as business owners, experienced the hard meetings with bankers and suppliers, anguished over decisions about buying a neighbor’s land, or endured the sleepless nights that defined that sad chapter in U.S. agriculture. Many remember it, but they weren’t the ones making the hard decisions at the kitchen table or facing down their “friend” at the bank.

As an industry, we don’t have the muscle memory of the deaths, auctions, foreclosures, and family breakups that never healed. For many, they’re just stories. With the current financial state of agriculture, we may be on the edge of learning those lessons firsthand again. And when the dust settles, it’s usually the same story: the big just keep getting bigger, while the remaining farmers are left to wonder how long they can hold on.

The question is, how will the U.S. respond if we see a repeat of the 1980s—with bankruptcies, suicides, and heartache in the heartland once again?

Patio Pondering: When Words Don’t Connect

The sun rose in a clear sky with the promise of another great day here on the patio. My coffee is hot, bold, and satisfying as I watch the morning unfold in the backyard landscaping.

After my comments yesterday about the lack of training or exposure to even the rudimentary rules of parliamentary procedure, I kept thinking about another piece of communication that fell short this week. I watched a press conference, and one thing stuck with me: the lack of transitions.

The prosecutor reading the prepared statement wasn’t the issue — in fact, with the gravity of the topic, a script made sense. What jarred me was how the speaker moved from one section to the next. Instead of giving the listener a signpost, they simply read the title of the next section:

“Evidence.”

And then continued on, as though the audience could seamlessly switch gears without any guidance. To me, that wasn’t unusual. I’ve seen this too often in meetings, speeches, and classrooms. It makes me wonder — do we still teach the basics of speaking?

Good transitions aren’t filler; they’re road signs. They prepare the listener for what comes next and give them a chance to adjust their attention. Think of how much clearer the message would have been with a simple phrase like:

“Now I’ll share the evidence we’ve collected.”

The content is identical, but the presentation is worlds apart. One respects the listener’s time and comprehension. The other assumes they’ll keep up, no matter how abruptly the road turns.

We should expect more from our speakers — especially when the message is important. Words matter. So do the bridges between them. Without those bridges, even the strongest ideas risk getting lost in the gaps.

Patio Pondering: Who Is Robert and Why Do His Rules Matter?

What a beautiful morning off the patio here in NE Indiana. I wish I could say the same about many public meetings I’ve attended or watched over the past few years. While enjoying my coffee, I listened to the Drainage Board meeting from a neighboring county, and what I heard several times took me back to my childhood.

As a youngster in 4-H, we were taught parliamentary procedure and exposed to Robert’s Rules of Order. One lesson stayed with me: words matter. When offering a motion, the proper phrasing was, “Mr. Chairman, I move…” That small phrase carried weight. It showed respect for the process and the people gathered.

What I heard at the Drainage Board meeting, and in just about every other meeting recently, instead was, “I make a motion…” Casual, common, and technically incorrect. It may sound harmless, but to me it signals how far we’ve drifted from discipline and decorum in public meetings.

The same disregard shows up with time limits. Public comment is often capped at three minutes, yet I’ve watched it stretch to ten. Maybe it’s because officials don’t want to seem rude or risk criticism by cutting someone off. But those limits usually don’t silence anyone. They exist for fairness. For citizens, they encourage getting to the heart of an issue, focusing on what matters most rather than distracting with background or emotional baggage. For officials, they ensure more people can speak and that meetings don’t get bogged down.

I don’t think most elected officials today could tell you much about Robert’s Rules of Order or why they matter. That frustrates me. Those rules aren’t relics; they are what keep meetings civil, efficient, and fair. They keep us from mob rule and majority bullying.

Maybe I’m too much of a rule follower. But when the small rules fall by the wayside, so does trust in the process.

Patio Pondering: Mist on the Patio, Fog in the Meeting Hall

This morning it is really foggy off the patio. We have plans to bale hay, but with all the moisture in the air I don’t know if that will happen. For now, I’ll enjoy a hot cup of coffee and watch the mist drift across the yard. Last night’s township meeting felt a lot the same: thick with fog, not from weather but from words.

As I drove to and from the school drop-off line, I replayed the meeting in my head. I sat there silently, taking notes, absorbing words and attitudes. What struck me most was the playbook: bait-and-switch tactics, falsehoods shouted loudly, mottos repeated like magic spells, and the tired performance of martyrdom, painting themselves as victims while shouting about how they fixed all the problems. The trouble is, those “fixes” look a lot like mismanaging millions in taxpayer dollars to me and others.

In situations like that, when loud falsehoods go unanswered, they harden into “truth.” Throwing shade at dead officials, making baseless accusations about staff who aren’t allowed to defend themselves—it all becomes truth when shouted by the loudest, largest person in the room. It’s a strategy as old as time: distract with slogans and half-truths, drown out facts, twist silence into agreement.

I had questions. I had facts. I wanted clarification. But I also knew that speaking up in that room wouldn’t bring more facts, only more distortion. So I sat quietly, listening, absorbing. I thought my campaign to pull back the curtains on mismanagement had run its course. After last night’s theater, I know I was wrong.

Then again, maybe I do need to stop. Maybe the taxpayer doesn’t care—or has become numb—to the mismanagement of THEIR funds. Maybe they’re too tired of the lies, too ready to move on, just wanting this to be over so they can turn their attention back to easier things, like the next football game.

The fog on the patio will lift by midday. The fog of half-truths and shouted lies will only lift when enough people are willing to face it.

Patio Pondering: Tweet With Your Feet!

This morning my head is buzzing after a weekend of work, football, and too much scrolling. But one thought keeps circling back.

I had a conversation with a fellow Swine Nutritionist last Friday afternoon, and one of his comments is still bouncing around in my head: “Keep going with your writing and podcasting.” That “keep going” hit me because it lined up with where I want to take this — not just cranking out words or podcasts, but carving out a space that feels different. I’ve said more than once that I want to be the Theo Von of Ag Podcasting. There’s something about his interviews that sticks with me — whether he’s talking with Lainey Wilson, President Trump, Katt Williams, or one of those “He got them on his podcast?” surprise guests. It’s not polished or scripted; it’s raw, unpredictable, and real.

That hit me again on Saturday. I was switching implements on our skid loader when my feed pulled up a seventeen-minute solo from Theo. I shut the machine down and just sat there listening. He spent the time reflecting on last week’s events and the impact of Charlie Kirk’s assassination. One part of his opening stuck with me all weekend:

“I, you know, I I I wasn't in his world a lot. Um, but I admired that he was brave. He went out and uh had conversations in, you know, he kind of like like he tweeted with his feet, you know, he went in instead of just yelling from, you know, from a desk or something or, you know, like most podcasters were sitting in a room saying stuff and and then putting it out. He went out into the world. Uh, and I really admired that.”

Charlie Kirk tweeted with his feet. He didn’t sit behind a desk telling the world what it should think — he showed up. He debated. He walked into the fire instead of shouting from the sidelines. Even after he was unplugged at one of my alma maters, he still went out to listen, debate, and share. And it makes me wonder: how many of us are guilty of doing the opposite, hiding behind screens and microphones instead of stepping out into the world?

Earlier that day I listened to the NPR Politics Podcast. One commentator lamented what they called the “whitewashing” of Charlie Kirk’s life by right-wing media, then turned around and did the same thing in reverse — cherry-picking inflammatory lines to impugn his actions. The hypocrisy was hard to miss. After hearing Theo, that NPR segment felt hollow. Tone-deaf. Patronizing to the very people it claimed to analyze. The contrast couldn’t have been clearer: agenda-driven reporting versus raw, unscripted words from someone simply speaking what he felt.

Toward the end of his podcast Theo said, “So, uh, yeah, I'm okay. I want to say that and I hope you are, too. And yeah, I don't even know why I wanted to come say something.” That’s what struck me most. He showed up because he wanted to share, to be raw, because he knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Maybe that’s the real challenge for the rest of us. Stop waiting until we have the perfect words. Stop hiding behind desks, microphones, and screens. Step out. Show up. Tweet with your feet.