Patio Pondering: When Joy and Grief Share the Same Space

This is a bonus Patio Pondering because I needed to get this testament to our children and their hearts off my chest.

Last evening, we attended a graduation party for one of our good family friends. As with most gatherings with our "Fair Folk Family," I had conversations with adults, adult children, and children. We talked about adulting, the challenges of life, and the twists and turns our circles have taken as our children have grown, flown, and sometimes returned home for a season.

This morning, I could not shake a recurring scene I had witnessed during the celebration. A conversation between young adults, our children, who are just starting to build their lives. They are exploring their freedom, carrying both the joy and fear that come with independence.

But last night, some of their conversations were not about weddings, new jobs, or first homes. They were making plans to attend a funeral visitation. One of their contemporaries, Ryan, was struck down by that cruel, heartless beast called cancer.

These young people should be dreaming out loud about love, careers, and the next great adventure. Instead, their voices were muted, shaded by the weight of grief. They laughed as they scrolled through their camera rolls, remembering Ryan through pictures and stories. It was both beautiful and heartbreaking to witness.

Today and tomorrow will be too hot, both in temperature and emotion, for our community and for our Fair Folk Family. We are walking through the tension of two milestones: one a joyful beginning, the other a painful goodbye.

But maybe that is what life really is. A blend of the beautiful and the brutal. A celebration and a mourning. A dance between hello and farewell.

PATIO PONDERING: WHERE DID THE PROTEIN GO?

This morning I am enjoying my coffee from a commemorative Farm Progress Show mug from 1989 that was held not far from us in Rochester, Indiana. I think it's fitting that my thoughts are directly on soybeans and pigs. In 1989 there were a lot of pig farms in northern Indiana.

I'm writing this with two faces, like the "Ebony and Ivory" video done by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder back in 1982. On one side I'm a swine nutritionist and the other a soybean farmer.

Back in 1989 when feed companies displayed their wares at the Farm Progress Show, their rations revolved around high-protein soybean meal, standardized to 48% crude protein. In many cases at that time the levels of protein were well above that standard and sometimes even in the low 50s.

We were still in the era of Hog Con 40 from the co-op, GM Base from Kent Feeds, and a myriad of other "40% concentrates" for pig feeding. These blends of protein, minerals, and vitamins were standards on Midwest pig farms. Of course the feed companies liked the high crude protein soybean meal because they could add more cheap filler to make their concentrates.

Over my career as a swine nutritionist I have witnessed the decline in soybean meal crude protein content. In some parts of the Midwest the minimum standard for "high-protein" meal is now as low as 43%. There are a few reasons for this: drive for yield over quality by seed companies and the expansion of soybean farming farther north where growing season is shorter.

Recently several well-respected and highly knowledgeable swine nutritionists have been re-examining how soybean meal is beneficial to the pig. Recent trials are compelling in their results showing that the energy value of soybean meal is much higher than previously published. This is good for me as a swine nutritionist since energy, like choice white grease or corn oil, is expensive. If meal has more energy the diet is more energy dense for the pig, a good thing.

But is that just putting lipstick on a pig?

Are we ignoring the bigger issue that should concern soybean farmers and those that promote soybean products: Where did the protein go? After all we are taught soybean meal is a protein ingredient.

A ton of protein from soybean meal was about $425 in July, 1989, today it is about $600. Not a great value when you consider a farm needs more volume of soybean meal to get that same amount of protein in a feed.

If I had a portrait of my Ebony and Ivory, nutritionist/farmer face, both sides would be frowning. For all the successes in soybean production over the past 35 years, maintaining protein content is not one of them.

This isn't just about pigs and soybeans. It's about what happens when one objective is prioritized at the expense of another. Should we accept this and move on, rely on synthetic amino acids and other protein sources to perfect pig feeds? Or should we push back on the research chain to emphasize protein in soybean breeding?

With all the push for renewable fuels from soybean oil you'd think we would want to add value to the meal portion, not return to the days of it being a low-value by-product that needed to be gotten rid of.

Then again, maybe this is a paradigm shift the industry—and I—just need to accept and move on from.

Or maybe not.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

This morning I’m reflecting on a conversation from this past weekend that could’ve gone sideways but didn’t.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon at the Community Pavilion in the Huntertown City Park. We were at my niece's graduation party—a celebration full of blue and white, eighteen years of photos, and displays of achievements few earn in their short lives.

I sat at a well-used picnic table with my aunt, a staunch Democrat, and my dad, a red-hat-wearing MAGA supporter. And then there was me: right-leaning, but trying to use my brain, at least part of the time.

My aunt brought up Secretary Kennedy and started lamenting all the bad things he was doing as Secretary of Health and Human Services. As she launched into her soliloquy, I could feel the tension rising. My dad shifted in his seat. I knew where this was heading—I’d been here before, both as the instigator and the innocent bystander.

So I spoke up.

To my aunt, I said, “I don’t agree with much of your politics, but on this one, we’re in lockstep agreement.”

To my dad, I offered, “You don’t have to agree with everything a politician says or does just because you voted for them.”

That was it. No fireworks. No shouting. Just a moment of truth that seemed to short-circuit what was about to happen. We returned to celebrating my niece, talking about family members long gone, and having the conversations you expect at a family event, with everyone speaking with blue-stained lips from the bright blue frosting on the cupcakes we all enjoyed.

In our world of black and white, “Orange Man Bad,” and “I’m right, you’re wrong,” we should be looking for common ground. We should be promoting critical thinking—by all of us.

𝘞𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭

This morning’s coffee on the patio doesn’t satisfy like it usually does.

Yesterday, my morning routine was interrupted by a phone call from a neighbor. I expected him to ask about a machine repair he’s been working on for me. But I was wrong. Instead, he told me that one of our renters had just passed away.

After the initial shock wore off, I drove up to the rental house. The driveway was blocked by EMS and two Sheriff’s cars. I joined three neighbors already there, quietly standing watch as the scene unfolded.

We’ve had that rental house for years. Steve and Jean have lived there for over a decade. Steve, the husband, has become a right-hand man for us, helping around the farm and keeping the mowing and weed trimming in check. While they paid rent, their value to us went far beyond a monthly check.

Watching first responders move in and out, seeing family arrive, and finally watching as Jean’s body was taken away by the local mortician, hit me with a wave of thoughts and emotions. But one thought kept repeating itself. It echoed yesterday’s Patio Pondering on being a good neighbor. I should have taken the time to visit with Jean.

I’ve written about this before, but some lessons are worth repeating. We need to make time for the people around us. My grandparents called it 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. That meant stopping by for a quick chat. No big plans. No event. Just checking in. Just being present.

More important than anything you might talk about in those moments is what it says. You matter to me.

So, who in your life needs a visit today?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐢𝐤𝐓𝐨𝐤

Several years ago, I had a neighbor call and say he needed help. He had hired someone to cut his field of hay, but their equipment didn’t work. So he asked if I could cut it with my equipment. I dropped what I was doing, headed over, and cut hay for him.

A couple of days later, he called again. He had started baling, but the baler he was using broke. He asked if he could use mine. I said sure, ran my baler over, and they got it hooked up to their tractor. I went about my business.

The next day, while they were finishing up, they called again and said, “Hey, come get your baler — it broke.”

So I headed over. My baler was parked, and it was broken. To be fair, it was built in the early 1970s.

I pulled it home, took the covers off, and started looking at what was broken. After a little searching online, I found the part I needed. The manufacturer wanted $444 for it. I remember that number clearly.

While I was working on it, I made a short TikTok video. I talked about how my neighbor had needed help, and how that’s just what neighbors do. I mentioned the $444 part, and wrapped up the video by saying, “The part broke, but I helped a neighbor; and that’s what neighbors do.”

What I didn’t expect was for that video to make the rounds in the Amish community like it was an Oscar-winning film. I thought I had been vague and anonymous. Apparently not. The community figured out exactly who I was talking about. And even though my message was about doing the right thing, that neighbors help neighbors, the video embarrassed them.

That neighbor hasn’t spoken to me since. Even after I apologized for unintentionally embarrassing them, they won’t wave or acknowledge me when we pass on the road or see each other at events.

There are a few lessons in this.

First, nothing is anonymous on the internet. Even the Amish will find your TikTok videos.

But more important than that, even when you're being neighborly, you still need to stay neighborly. That doesn’t stop when relationships get uncomfortable. It means showing up, being kind, and being willing to help, even after the side-eyes and silence.

If that neighbor had a serious problem, I’d still show up.

With all the hate in the world, we don’t need more grudges. We need more neighbors.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡

This morning, while getting ready for the day before I even had my coffee and had a chance to sit on the patio and begin pondering, I had two thoughts. These are thoughts that I've had over the years but I've never really shared.

First, why do we feel we cannot simply give a yes/no answer when the answer needs to be yes or no? I have an appointment with one of our suppliers this morning, and they sent a text asking if we could change the time to accommodate an appointment he forgot about. The response I sent was "yes," but when I hit the send button, I felt like I should have added to it: "yes, of course, anything to make this work" or "yes, don't worry about it." But in reality, the simple "yes" was what was needed.

The other thing that I've been thinking about over the years is why do we, and this seems to particularly occur in women, feel the need to laugh when we say something important? I saw this past weekend when, in conversations or listening to people talk about an important item, they said something that was controversial. I don't remember what the conversation was, but what I do remember was a really important comment being made and then followed with a "hahaha." What is the mechanism in us that wants to trivialize or add humor to serious comments? Are we trying to trivialize it?

Are we trying to soften the blow with the laugh? And am I seeing it correctly that it seems to be a response in women more than men?

I know these topics aren't important to leadership in a company. They don't affect how an employee feels about their boss, but they're thoughts that I've had here on the patio. And after all, what's the patio for but pondering?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

It’s another steamy, hazy morning out here on the patio. I had planned to follow up yesterday’s reflection with another jab at workplace leadership, a follow-up to the right hook I threw yesterday. But that doesn’t match my mood today.

This morning’s reflection is about the difference volunteers make. After writing about the crew who stayed behind to clean up after our 4-H fair, I’ve been thinking more deeply about the quiet, steady presence of volunteers and how much they shape the groups they serve.

Last night, after watching the TinCaps fall to the Loons, we passed Catholic Cemetery on the way home. I have an aunt and uncle buried there, along with a few distant relatives and old friends. But this time, my thoughts went to someone else: Mr. Dan Thurber.

I first met Dan in the 1980s during my Boy Scout years. He was the Scoutmaster of Troop 307 at Our Lady of Good Hope Catholic Church, a friendly rival to my own Troop 27 at Bethany United Methodist Church. Both troops drew boys from Shambaugh Elementary, which created a healthy competition for new Scouts.

Over time, I got to know Dan better, especially as his oldest son and I became more involved in Scouts and the Order of the Arrow. What started as rivalry grew into friendship. Dan was always there. His pickup truck with the cap and the front bumper hitch was a familiar sight. Wherever the Scouts were, Dan was too.

Fast forward to 2012 when my eldest son crossed over to Boy Scouts. We chose to join Troop 2 at St. Vincent Catholic Church, led by Dan Thurber. The old friendship quickly rekindled, and Dan never missed a chance to remind me that he knew me before I ever grew into my six-foot-two frame.

Watching Dan lead Troop 2, I quickly realized how much he did behind the scenes. He knew the ins and outs of the program, who to contact at the council, and when forms were due. Others handled big events and planning, but Dan was the one who kept the troop running smoothly through all the little details.

What spoke volumes about Dan’s commitment was how he stayed involved even while battling cancer. Through the hardest times, he made sure boys advanced, merit badges were earned, and paperwork was submitted. He showed up, even when it was difficult.

Because Dan was there.

He was always there.

For the boys. For the troop. For the mission.

People like Dan don’t often get the praise they deserve. They are the quiet constants. The ones who show up time after time and rarely seek recognition.

My hope is that you’ve had a Dan Thurber in your life—someone who was always there.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

This morning, I sat waiting at the eye doctor’s office for over 10 minutes past my appointment time. As I sat there flipping through my mental Rolodex, I was reminded of a former Director I once worked with. This was someone who was perpetually late or completely absent from meetings they scheduled.

Invariably, someone in the room would step up and kick off the meeting to avoid wasting more time. Just as discussions started rolling, the Director would finally stroll in and expect to be “brought up to speed” like we were interns instead of colleagues. The usual excuse? “An Executive Team meeting ran long.”

Now, if there is any group in an organization that should model respect for others’ time, it should be the Executive Team. Right?

When I voiced my concerns to my direct supervisor, I got a trifecta of excuses:

• That’s just the way they are.

• Those Exec meetings are really important.

• Sometimes the President calls meetings and they cannot say no.

I didn’t buy it then. I don’t buy it now.

All three responses dripped with disrespect. They revealed just how disconnected the “bosses” were from the people doing the actual work. The shrug from my supervisor, “oh well, you can’t change itc” was both disappointing and enlightening.

Translation? The hierarchy matters more than the humans. The worker bees are expected to stay on schedule. The Queen Bee’s time is sacred.

And it still grinds my gears.

So, here’s the question:

How many times have you watched leaders disregard their own schedules, miss meetings, or treat their workforce’s time as expendable?

Is it any wonder morale erodes and engagement drops?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐖𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤?

It is another steamy, oppressive morning here on the patio. The horizon is cloaked in a haze of humidity, and we are under yet another heat advisory. Even so, I am enjoying my coffee while the water babbles in our backyard feature and the first lily pad flowers of the year pop open, adding to the peaceful ambiance.

This past week, I have been at our county fair. Our son split his time between Boy Scout summer camp and the fair, a busy stretch of earning merit badges, tackling hikes, and showing his sheep and pigs. With him bouncing between two volunteer-led organizations, I observed a lot of interactions with a wide array of people. After distilling the week’s experiences, I landed on this question:

𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦”?

I have been around volunteer-led organizations nearly my whole life, starting with Cub Scouts in the mid-70s and continuing with my own volunteer leadership in Boy Scouts and 4-H today. Over those years, I have seen the good, the bad, and the ugly — people who truly step up and those who are volunteers only in title.

Too often, I have seen bad behavior and incompetence tolerated at the expense of the youth these groups exist to serve. In a few cases, someone was only removed after a dramatic breach of rules or, unfortunately, a felony conviction, and the quiet reaction was, “Finally, we can get rid of them.” What? The volunteer was so bad you celebrated their conviction but did not have the guts to remove them for their poor behavior long before that conviction. Maybe this says more about the other leaders than it does about the removed volunteer.

Why do we let poor volunteers stay on at the cost of the kids and the program’s integrity, just because we do not want to cause offense? Why do we not step up and be the example for the youth we claim to lead, making the tough decisions when volunteers behave badly? Our inaction sends the wrong message to the very kids we want to teach responsibility and courage, especially when the hushed conversations in the corners all circle back to, “Someone should do something.”

The same can be said about the workplace, but I will leave that Pandora’s Box untouched... for now.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

I’m sitting here after wrapping up our family’s eighteenth Allen County 4-H Fair, coffee in hand, taking in the patio landscape. The plants didn’t pause their growth during our days at the fair, and now the garden is gently reminding me there’s work to catch up on.

This morning’s reflection drifts back to a moment from a couple of nights ago, during a conversation with an old 4-H friend. As we chatted about fair happenings, his phone buzzed with a Facebook Messenger call. He answered, and I found myself quietly dumbstruck by what unfolded, not because video calls are anything new, but because in all my thoughts on technology’s place in our lives, I had never really pictured this use.

To really see what I saw, you have to know my friend is deaf and has spent his whole life in near silence, finding ways to connect long before Bluetooth hearing aids or cochlear implants ever existed.

What I witnessed was a full, effortless conversation, no sound, just fluent American Sign Language flowing back and forth on Messenger’s video. I sat there, unable to follow along, much like I sometimes get lost listening to the younger 4-H members toss around words like “rizz,” “cap,” and “sigma.”

Watching them sign reminded me how technology, at its best, quietly removes barriers we once accepted as fixed. It is easy to forget that many of the biggest advances — the Internet, the interstate system, GPS — were built for broad uses but ended up improving life in countless unexpected ways.

As I sat there, it struck me how fitting this was for the fair. To Make the Best Better is more than a slogan; it is a promise every 4-H family carries forward, in big and small ways. Sometimes we think it just applies to showmanship, record books, or projects, but in truth, it is a mindset. For my friend, this little piece of everyday tech is part of how he makes his best better, bridging silence with connection and showing the rest of us just how far a simple idea can go when people have the will to use it well.

Thank you to Ducky Dunten for inspiring today's Patio Pondering.

Celebrating Those Who Volunteer, and Stay.

Today was Auction Day for the 4-H’ers at the Allen County Indiana 4-H to end the Allen County Fairgrounds / Allen County Fair

When the auction ended, it was time to clean up. Pens needed to be disassembled and loaded on racks, manure and bedding had to be hauled out, and floors had to be pressure washed to remove the last of the dirt and mess — plus a dozen other little jobs.

I probably should have been home cutting hay today, but Johnathan Smith and I stayed to help. We stayed to the bitter end, long after the pressure washers went quiet and the empty pizza boxes hit the trash.

It seems like the cleanup crew gets smaller every year. Thankfully, there are a few stalwarts who always show up — and they don’t just show up, they bring skid loaders, pressure washers, and a strong back.

Of course, some folks can’t help because of work, but there are always a few who seem to believe the fair magically ends the moment their trailer door closes, like Harry Potter flicking his wand and muttering, Mischief Managed.

It’d be easy to grumble about who didn’t pitch in — or about the hay I didn’t cut — but tonight I’d rather tip my hat to the ones who stayed, the ones who stepped up with tools, machines, and time, and the ones who gave up their Monday afternoon and evening to finish a dirty job well.

You’re the ones who make it happen. Thank you.

Patio Pondering: The Lost Carrot

This morning I have no responsibilities other than to reflect and enjoy my cup of coffee as I gaze across the campsite at our county fairgrounds. My son is off doing chores while I savor the quiet solitude, interrupted only by the steady hum of generators in the background.

Last night in the sheep barn, an old friend and I found ourselves leaning on the sheep show box far longer than planned, talking about today’s young people and the strange challenges we see. One line stuck with me: some kids today don’t even know what “dangling a carrot” means.

That image says a lot. Somewhere along the way, we seem to have lost the art of showing how effort connects to reward — or maybe we’ve wrapped our young people in so much structure and instant gratification that the idea of working towards something just out of reach feels foreign.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t just a youth issue. The same challenge shows up in the workplace every day. Motivating people, whether they’re fifteen or fifty, is harder than ever in a world where so many expect quick results and minimal effort. Good managers have to find ways to “dangle the carrot” that feel fair, clear, and worth chasing; and sometimes that’s an uphill battle.

So as I watch the fairgrounds wake up this morning, I find myself wondering: Are we still willing to connect extra effort with meaningful reward both at home and at work? It’s not just on the student or employee to push harder; it’s also on us as parents, coaches, and managers to notice that extra effort, reward it fairly, and never take it for granted. Otherwise, people stop going the extra mile; and once that spark burns out, it’s hard to reignite.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐏𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐏𝐓𝐎

This morning, as my son and niece were washing and clipping their show sheep, I found myself reflecting back on a “sacrifice” I made just over a year ago — a sacrifice that nobody noticed or cared about.

Two and a half months before my position was eliminated, my daughter got married. The day before the wedding was full of bustle: building bouquets, stringing lights, arranging tables just so. But as the father of the bride, I found myself doing a lot of sitting.

Since my hands were free, I took charge of a weeks-old baby so her mother could craft floral arrangements and dialed into a work conference call. We were in the middle of sorting out a line of feeds that needed fixing — same corporate dance: plenty of words, a few action items, and another meeting booked.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that no one told my boss I’d joined that call on my day off. Nobody cared I was using my PTO to keep the ball rolling. And in the end, that sacrifice didn’t protect my job one bit.

It was my choice to dial in: I thought my perspective was needed. But over a year later, my comments and input from that call meant nothing. I should have been out back laughing with the wedding party, not fretting about feed formulas.

Here’s a reminder for all of us: when we’re on PTO, let’s actually 𝘣𝘦 on PTO.

As I sit here reflecting on both my daughter’s beautiful wedding and that conference call, I can’t help but wonder: how often do we feel we’re more essential to the workplace than we really are?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 4-𝐇, 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐍𝐨𝐰

I had some chores to finish here at home last night, so I did not spend the night at the county fair. Instead, this morning I am enjoying my coffee on the patio, anticipating the first lily pad blossom of the year in the pond, and reflecting on a thought I had during swine check-in yesterday.

Many years ago, towards the end of swine check-in at our county fair, I was asked to run to a young 4-H’er’s home and haul a pig. He had another pig at home that needed to be checked in, so I dropped what I was doing, loaded up, and got that pig to the fair.

Fast forward. That young man is now deep in the show pig industry, working with some of the stalwarts and making a name for himself. By all accounts, he’s doing well.

The rub? He doesn’t give me the time of day now. Barely a curt “hi” when I say the same.

Depending on my mood, that can tick me off.

But when I think about it longer, I doubt he even remembers what I and another dad did to make sure that pig made it to the show that year. And that’s fine. Instead of wasting energy on resentment, I remind myself: I did the right thing back then, for him, for his experience, and for the program.

Sometimes we need that reminder: do the right thing. Go above and beyond when it matters. Don’t expect applause, especially when it’s about helping kids learn and grow.

Even at my age, 4-H still teaches me a thing or two.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐑𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

This one has been sitting in my drafts for well over a month. As I prepared to haul my son’s and niece’s show pigs to the Allen County Fair early this morning, I thought it was a good time to dust off the cobwebs and share this reflection.

It hit my inbox after days of silence: the “Thanks for applying, but…” email from a company I was genuinely excited about.

Of the more than 45 job applications that have gone nowhere these past few months, this one stings the most. Not because it’s a good company with solid products. Not because they seem to treat their employees well. Not because former employees sing their praises. It’s none of those reasons.

This one hurts because I championed this company in my previous roles. I pushed to include their product in feed formulas because it was the right solution. I worked with their team to verify usage, promoted it to customers, and, in many ways, became a brand ambassador without ever wearing their badge.

This one hurts because I thought the respect I’d earned over nearly two decades of support might have led to a simple 30-minute conversation with the hiring manager. I didn’t expect special treatment or a guaranteed offer, but I did expect to be seen.

This one hurts. And no, I won’t forget it.

But I will keep going. I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep putting my best foot forward.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈𝐬 𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐅𝐢𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭?

Today is a busy day.

I’m reviving my podcast recording after a short hiatus, and I need to get my interviewing mindset and voice back in gear. But before I do, I’m taking a moment out here on the patio to reflect.

As I sit here with my coffee on the patio, I’m thinking about the job search and the conversations I’ve had with several friends in the swine industry who are in the same situation. The challenges of navigating today’s “new normal” job search have me dredging up memories from the various career prep seminars I attended back at Purdue.

I remember those seminars well. Two pieces of advice were emphasized over and over:

𝐃𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐛 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

That second point has been on my mind a lot lately. During those assignments, we researched companies and matched them to our personal values. It all felt so straightforward at the time—make a list, find your fit, and chart your course.

But in the real world, it rarely works that cleanly.

These days, job searches often come down to accepting the opportunity that is available, even if it does not check all the boxes. The idea of “fit” starts to feel like a luxury instead of a priority. I have learned that lesson the hard way.

To be clear, there are definitely a few companies and supervisors who are firmly on my “No Way” list. For the rest, though, the distinction becomes less clear. Is the discomfort a sign of a mismatch in values, or just part of the adjustment period? Is this the wrong place for me, or the right place at the wrong time?

Lately, I find myself wondering if “fit” is something we discover or something we create.

What do you think?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐁𝐢𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫, 𝐈𝐭 𝐈𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭

This morning, I enjoyed the full sun warming my face as I sipped coffee on the patio. It was the first morning in over a week without clouds—just the sun rising strong and steady to welcome the day.

There’s a Bible verse that struck a chord with me recently. 𝐄𝐜𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 11:4 says, “𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵; 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵.”

There are many translations of this verse, but the message is consistent: waiting for perfection doesn’t lead to progress. In every task we undertake, there’s always an element of uncertainty.

In the workplace, it’s easy to mislabel some colleagues as lazy when, in reality, they’re simply waiting for everything to line up just right before they start. They want every tool in place, every risk accounted for, and every scenario planned. That kind of caution can be frustrating to those who prefer to charge ahead and adapt as challenges arise.

I’ve seen the same mindset play out on local farms, particularly in spring. Some growers, especially when it comes to corn, hesitate to plant. They wait, anxious, hoping for perfect conditions. Even as others get rolling in the fields, they hold back, watching the clouds and questioning every detail.

So how do we find the right balance between patience and action?

How do we build teams where cautious planners and decisive doers complement each other rather than clash?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

Saturday morning, I attended a field day hosted by two young men launching a drone application company. Still in college, their entrepreneurial spirit was contagious. It was inspiring to see their excitement as they demonstrated their drone and explained how they hope to support area farmers.

But as I stood there watching, another thought tugged at me.

Less than two miles from that very field, prime Allen County farmland is being swallowed up—not by the acre, but by the square mile—for housing developments. It’s happening fast. The soil that once grew corn and beans is now being packed under streets and cul-de-sacs.

So I couldn't help but wonder: What is the future for these young men? They’re building a business to serve farmers in a region that’s steadily losing farmland. How long will their own families be able to resist the temptation to cash in on their land? What will be left to support?

It’s a question I find myself asking more often these days—not just for them, but for agriculture in general.

We say we want young people in agriculture. We talk about creating opportunities. And yes, they’re still out there. But in some areas, those opportunities are shrinking—either paved over or swallowed by consolidation. The biggest keep getting bigger, and the middle is fading fast.

How do we reconcile the optimism of the next generation with the realities of what they're up against?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧

This morning, the weather in our area is misty and cloudy. Sunshine isn’t reaching the ground. After two inches of rain the other day and no sun since, it’s wet, the air is heavy, and it’s affecting my mood.

The dreariness today, coupled with a discussion with a friend about diseases in the swine industry, has me thinking about what a great disinfectant sunshine is—for both health and attitude. Both of my grandmothers used to say that hanging clothes on the line and opening the windows to let the sunshine in was the best way to clean out a house. Sunshine cleans a lot.

Recently, I discovered the depth of fiscal shenanigans within a tax-funded entity in our area. My writing pulled back the curtains and let the sunshine in on the nefarious activities that have hurt local taxpayers. The cleansing effect of shedding light on the books is starting to open eyes.

Pulling back the curtains to let the sun in pushes away the smoke and mirrors that build up when the windows are shut and the room stays dark. Direct sunlight exposes what’s really happening, not just what someone wants us to see through clever words or fancy spreadsheets.

I’m sitting here waiting for the sun to burn off the haze, to dry the ground so we can finish planting and start cutting hay. Until the sun does its job—drying, warming, and rejuvenating—I’ll likely stay in this melancholy mood, reminded of how much we rely on sunshine, both in the soil and in our souls.

How many times have you been affected by things happening in the dark, behind closed doors, without the cleansing effects of sunlight? How do we push ourselves, and those we work with, to be out in the open when difficult decisions are made?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

I didn’t write Patio Ponderings the past three days. I’ve been working on projects and talking with friends as we prepare for World Pork Expo. Today, I’m pondering the balance between telling the “truth” and the pull of toxic positivity.

When I read stories about agriculture, there’s often a consistent tone of positivity, sometimes drifting into toxic positivity. We see idyllic images and words about how great it is to raise food for others. Even when it's hard, the message is usually, “It’s a good life.”

Then there are stories that try to show the “truth” of farm life, often centered around the loss of an animal or the struggles of day-to-day work. These stories tug at the heartstrings, drawing out emotion and empathy.

I’ve talked with other ag writers about how we walk this fine line. How much do we share of the real ups and downs without offending consumers or others in ag? How far do we go in sharing the hard, uncomfortable facts of life and death, prosperity and struggle that happen on every farm?

A farmer I know lost rental agreements after being honest online about his experiences. He shared stories about broken equipment, escaped cattle, conflict with drivers on rural roads, and the pressures of urban sprawl. The landowners told him, “It seems like you have a lot of problems. We want someone who doesn’t have so many issues.” His effort to “tell his story” ended up hurting his business. Even though he was sharing struggles that happen on every farm, he was penalized for being honest. And yet, “Tell Your Story” is the very mantra many AgVocates encourage us to follow.

So where is the line? How do we strike a balance between authenticity and perception? Between showing pride in what we do and being honest about how hard it really is?

How do you decide what parts of the ag story are safe to tell, and which truths are better left unsaid?