Patio Pondering: Lambs, Pigs, and Calves, Oh My!

Today’s coffee came from the instant maker at the Holiday Inn Express, but the thoughts are percolating here on the Annex Patio in the Sheep Barn at the Indiana State Fairgrounds & Event Center . All around me is the organized chaos of show day: families prepping lambs for showmanship, youth hustling lambs to the wash rack and racing to get them dried and fitted, and barn speakers battling it out with modern hip hop on one side and '80s and '90s country on the other.

I’m struck by the contrast. Parents offer their support through money, labor, and know-how, while the kids blaze their own trails: clipping lambs, rekindling friendships, and finding their own rhythm in preparing animals.

The last two days I’ve been flying solo, hauling lambs and pigs, navigating check-ins, and fretting over whether weigh cards were submitted correctly. It’s exhausting, but rewarding. Still, as I sit in our tack pen and sip my coffee, I can’t help but wrestle with a familiar tension.

On one hand, I celebrate all the good that comes from youth livestock shows—responsibility, consequences, hard work, and opening the door to agriculture for non-livestock farm kids. On the other hand, I wrestle with the mixed messages: the line between show ring polish and commercial reality, and all the things we’re allowed to do to animals in the name of chasing a purple banner.

This morning, while doing chores, I passed by folks I’ve worked with as a Swine Nutritionist—former colleagues, customers, and suppliers. I’ve seen a lot of LinkedIn connections hauling buckets, holding animals, and coaching kids. There’s no denying the passion on display in these barns from both the youth and the adults who love them.

So I’ll keep walking this line. One foot helping my kids feed, fit, and show, and the other planted firmly in commercial production. I'm always wondering how to bridge the gap, how to capture the passion from these show barns and carry it into barns that feed the world.

Is showing livestock the best way to raise kids? I don’t know.

But it’s a darn good one.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐩 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧

This morning started with humidity and fog drifting off the patio. The plants were coated in heavy dew, and the air just felt thick. It’s Monday, and for a lot of folks, this kicks off a busy week with the start of the Indiana State Fair.

With my mind on the swine and sheep shows down in Indianapolis, a memory showed up on my Facebook feed from eight years ago—and it really hit home:

𝘈𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘨, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘏𝘚𝘜𝘚 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘌𝘛𝘈, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱.

𝘈𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦, 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵.

𝘔𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘐 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴. 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, “𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

𝘐𝘯 𝘈𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

When I read that memory, I immediately got goosebumps. I remembered how awkward it felt to be the only one clapping, and the disbelief that I was the only one who agreed with what the judge said.

But as I think back on that night, maybe that reaction was exactly what I should have expected. Someone says something “controversial” that many quietly agree with, and the room goes silent. No one wants to be labeled. Nobody wants to be the first to respond. Yet plenty nod along once the pressure is off.

And it is not just in show barns. I have seen it in meetings too. A plan or idea gets floated that does not make sense, and nobody says a word. The bad idea picks up steam, not because people agree, but because they are afraid to push back.

It is a reminder: silence is not always agreement. And sometimes, courage just looks like clapping when no one else will.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧

Yesterday afternoon, after wrapping up a consulting job, I needed to help a neighbor plant a food plot for deer season. To do that, I headed to the back corner of the barnyard to pull out my dad’s old International 37 disc.

I couldn’t get the thing to raise.

I tried and tried. Switched hoses. Sprayed the hydraulic cylinder rod with penetrating oil. Got a pry bar out to force the wheels down. I could move the lift axle manually, but I couldn’t make it lift. I was starting to get frustrated; of course, the oppressive humidity and high heat index didn’t help my mood.

I even switched hydraulic outlets, just to rule out the obvious. But that didn’t make sense either, since I had just used every outlet last week with no issue.

And then I found the problem.

Not because I’m a genius, but because I’ve been around the block.

You see, I do have the intelligence to understand hydraulic circuits, valves, and what could restrict fluid flow. But it wasn’t my book smarts that fixed the issue, it was experience.

When I pulled out the hydraulic hose, I saw it immediately: one of the tips was a high-flow, newer-style coupler, not the old Pioneer-style tip that this 55-year-old tractor was built for.

I’ve seen this movie before. In fact, I wrote about it once: the time I was trying to unfold a newer piece of equipment and couldn’t get it to work. Back then, I made a few phone calls asking for help, swapped the tips, and boom, it worked.

Same thing here. I went up to the loft, grabbed a spare tip, swapped it out, plugged it back in, and just like that, the disc lifted and dropped like it should.

This morning, I’m writing this reflection as a thunderstorm drops rain and I prepare for the funeral of a young man taken too soon. An intelligent, inquisitive kid with big dreams of becoming a nuclear engineer.

What breaks my heart is knowing he won’t get the time or opportunity to turn that intelligence into experience, the kind that deepens knowledge, hones wisdom, and teaches lessons no textbook ever could.

It’s a reminder to all of us: experience matters.

Whether you’re fixing a hydraulic line, formulating a pig diet, or crafting a marketing campaign, sometimes it’s not just what you know. It’s what you’ve been through.

Let’s not overlook the value of experience in our coworkers, our families, and ourselves.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐭

This morning the air on the patio is heavy. The weather forecasters blame Corn Sweat. I call it good old Midwest humidity. My coffee is strong and is helping get my thoughts moving.

As I sit here watching the sun rise and reflect off the heavy dew on the plants, I’m thinking about a simple inconvenience I experienced yesterday.

My son is in the middle of Band Camp this week, and I treated him to a fast food lunch yesterday. On the way home from delivering the midday meal, one of the roads to our house was closed as the county chip-and-sealed it, a compromise between gravel and full paving. I simply kept going, planning to take the next road.

As I crested a hill, I saw a train blocking both the road I was on and the road I had intended to use to get home.

Because of the stopped train, I had to go west to go east. My route home took me through our hometown, where I was further delayed: more construction, dump trucks, and temporary traffic control. In all, the detour added over five miles and almost twenty minutes to my trip home.

As I sit here this morning, I’m thinking back to how I reacted. I simply found the next option to make the trip home. It took me longer, but I eventually got there.

I could have easily stopped and accosted the county workers who were blocking the road at the original obstacle. I could have had a temper tantrum when the train blocked my path. The challenges in Grabill could have spawned a road rage incident before I finally had open road for the last leg of my short trip home.

I can’t help but relate this to how we react to obstacles in our work lives; whether it’s an objection during a sales call, a change of direction for a marketing campaign, or a myriad of other unforeseen hindrances to our well-crafted plans.

Maybe it’s a bit of maturity or experience that caused me to just roll with the punches yesterday. Maybe I’ve just resigned myself to the fact that I’m not in control. Or maybe I just took the detour as an opportunity to see different scenery on my trip home.

How do you react to challenges; the roadblocks that threaten to derail your plans?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞

This morning, the Terra Level Executive Suite is unusually quiet. No movement upstairs. No clatter from the kitchen. Just me, my coffee, and a long list that stretches from the daily and mundane to preparing for the Indiana State Fair and finalizing my next podcast episode.

You’d think the silence would help me focus, but my thoughts are scattered.

Last night, I sat in on a planning meeting for Donovan’s funeral, the 15-year-old Scout I wrote about last week. I had nothing to add; others had already picked up the reins and were pulling the preparation wagon. So, I observed. Observed how people show up in grief. No profound conclusions, just quiet appreciation that there will be a celebration worthy of Donovan later this week.

Then, this morning, I saw a comment from Donovan’s mother beneath a news story about how local marching bands honored him during band camp.

Her words stopped me cold:

“𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭.”

She’s right.

In our effort to create perfect paths for our children: chasing “the best,” protecting them from harm, trying to shape ideal outcomes, we sometimes fail to notice that they have been learning the lessons we’ve tried to teach them.

Yes, there are overprotective parents who smother growth; but when we let kids experience life—the good and the bad—they grow. They 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯.

The expressions of sympathy, compassion, and grief I’ve seen from Fort Wayne’s youth this past week have been powerful, honest, and beautiful.

As we mourn Donovan, I’m choosing to also celebrate the strength and depth of our young people: how they’ve come together to honor their friend, support one another, and face the hard truth that life is fragile.

They 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 credit.

And maybe, just maybe, we adults can learn something from them.

Patio Pondering: If All Politics Are Local, Is Corruption Also Local?

When I first wrote about this issue back in June, I was challenged to “find out the truth.” I’ve been trying to do just that.

The Northeast Allen Fire Territory (NEAFT) was officially disbanded on December 31, 2023. According to Indiana Code 36-8-19-15(b):

“When a fire protection territory dissolves, title to any real property transferred to the provider unit reverts to the participating unit that transferred the real property to the provider unit.”

That wording is pretty plain. The money and equipment are supposed to be returned to the participating townships. On the date of dissolution, NEAFT held $3,270,494 in its accounts, according to audited data available on Gateway. That number is much larger than I wrote about earlier. As of today, only $400,000 of that balance has been distributed, and not to the participating townships, but instead to the newly formed Fire District.

Here’s the rub: that $3.3 million came from taxes collected from the residents of Cedar Creek, Springfield, and Scipio Townships, along with the towns of Leo-Cedarville and Grabill. Those taxes were levied for fire protection and fire equipment, not to become a slush fund for Cedar Creek Township to spend as it sees fit, including the purchase of a new office building in June 2024.

After being challenged to “find out the truth for myself,” I tried to gain direct access to the relevant financial records, not just the high-level summaries available on Gateway that lack the detail needed to fully understand how those funds were used. On June 24, I hand delivered a formal request under Indiana’s Access to Public Records Act (APRA). The Cedar Creek Township Trustee acknowledged the request on June 25, but the scope of permission was unclear. I submitted an amended request later that same day asking for more detailed information. When no response came, I followed up on July 2, again no reply. That’s a violation of Indiana Code 5-14-3-9(c), which requires a response within seven days. I submitted another amended request today, July 18, the same day I’m writing this reflection.

Taxpayers in Northeast Allen County should be up in arms over the lack of accountability, the financial sleight of hand, and what increasingly looks like outright corruption in how fire protection funds are being handled. These funds were collected to protect lives and property, not to pad township budgets.

Springfield Township taxpayers and voters should be concerned that one of their Advisory Board Members is also serving as Clerk to the Cedar Creek Township Trustee. That dual role raises serious questions about divided loyalties and whether Springfield Township’s interests are truly being represented.

The balances due to the participating entities as of December 31, 2023, minus any normal, expected wind-down expenses, should be returned for fire protection as originally intended, not redirected without clear accountability.

I know most of us groan when we write our property tax checks each May and November. But we pay them anyway, with the expectation that those dollars will be used appropriately. We trust our local elected officials to protect us, not just from fire, but from financial mismanagement.

That trust is being tested right now. And it’s time we start asking harder questions.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝

I had a plan for this morning’s Patio Pondering. I had the bones for a reflection about how we react when our credibility is questioned. I had examples, reactions, and suggestions.

That all changed when my 15-year-old told me one of the members of his Boy Scout troop died last week.

His revelation hit me hard. But what he said next devastated me. The young man, about to start his sophomore year, was one of 𝘮𝘺 𝘚𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴. I had been his Den Leader for two years and helped him cross over into his current troop. While my leadership at the troop level was different than the Cub Scout den, I still considered him one of mine. I had watched him and the others interact, lead, and advance.

It tugs at your heart when your own son asks if he can attend the funeral. You realize just how much these boys mean to one another, even if they don't say it out loud.

This death is bookmarked with the passing of my Great Aunt Joan, who passed through her earthly veil at 100 years old, closing out my grandfather’s generation that spanned more than 118 years.

It seems I was just here, reflecting on the simultaneous deaths of a young person and an older family member. I do not like the pattern that is developing. The contrast of emotions between these two losses is stark and hard to process.

For Joan, it is a celebration of 100 years of a life well lived, filled with memories of the Good Old Days and thoughts about her generation’s contribution to our family.

For Donovan, my thoughts are much more melancholy. I hurt for his family. I hurt for his troop mates and his bandmates. I hurt for myself and for the other parents of his peers, as we try to help our children process emotions and questions they should not have to face this early in life. I hurt for the leaders at his school and his troop, who must lead others while grieving themselves.

As a fellow band parent, I was looking forward to the chance of seeing him perform with the Snider High School marching band at one of this fall’s competitions. With my own son in the Leo band, I knew our paths might cross. I imagined scanning the sea of black and yellow, hoping to catch a glimpse of Donovan before enjoying the performance from the stands. Sadly, that opportunity is now gone.

In my last conversation with him, he told me he wanted to be a nuclear engineer, a lofty goal that reflected his intelligence. This was a brilliant young man, and the world never got to see the impact he might have had.

I do not know how to end this with anything uplifting that does not feel forced or overly religious. I believe both Joan and Donovan are in a better place and are enjoying the joys of life everlasting.

But for me, I just have to get through the week, somehow.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐆𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬

This morning, I’m enjoying my cup of coffee as the sun peeks over the horizon. My thoughts are muddled, turning over a mix of things, most of them about the unfairness we all seem to run into: unfair rain coverage, unfair communication, unfair impressions.

Yesterday brought scattered rains to our area. At our place, we received three-quarters of an inch. The plants looked like they were breathing a sigh of relief this morning. Not everyone nearby was as fortunate, but we are grateful for what we received.

Lately, I have been thinking about how our industry is shaped by news, rumors, and “information” that comes from outside sources. Often, it lands hardest on the people actually doing the work. The ones raising pigs or planting crops are left reacting to decisions made far away.

A post circulating in my network this week outlined the characteristics of bad managers; it struck a chord. So did a conversation with a friend who shared how he approaches one-on-one meetings with his team. His consistent, open style made me reflect on how little of that I experienced in some of my past roles.

And more personally, I keep replaying a conversation with a former boss where Executive Team gossip somehow became truth. The lack of communication between us gave those rumors a foothold; it turned assumptions into conclusions.

With all those thoughts cooking in my head, I do not have a tidy message today. I am just doing what needs to be done, working through the hurdles in front of me, and keeping my eyes on what is next.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐏𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

This morning I’m thinking about a phrase that gets thrown around a lot, especially among professionals: 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦.

Over the weekend, I found myself working through the landscaping, pulling weeds—mostly grasses and other strays that had crept in where they didn’t belong. And as I crawled through the plants, tugging at those stubborn roots, I couldn’t shake some persistent thoughts of inadequacy.

It was that feeling again: Imposter Syndrome. The kind that creeps in when you're stuck between a nearly year-long job search and a corn crop that’s nothing short of disappointing.

You can call it whatever you want, but it often boils down to a quiet, nagging voice whispering: “𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦.”

Pulling weeds, in a way, mirrored that process of tending to the emotional clutter. It’s not glamorous, but sometimes you have to kneel down and deal with what’s grown where it shouldn’t. Doubt. Frustration. Insecurity. Just like unwanted plants, they won’t go away on their own.

Maybe we all need a few Stuart Smalley moments now and then—when we look in the mirror and remind ourselves:

“𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒕, 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

This morning, a haze of fog draped across the fields surrounding our backyard. The sun streamed through it, casting an almost otherworldly glow across the patio and landscaping. My coffee mug is filled with a new roast today, a bold brew that packs more punch than my usual Maxwell House.

Yesterday, a friend commented on my post, “𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥,”

and shared how he uses regular 1:1 meetings to help his team manage mental fatigue. What stuck with me was how he described those meetings.

In one part of his response, he said:

“𝘈𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 1:1 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘴.”

Later in his message, he added:

“𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯: ‘𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩?”

Employee-led. Nothing off limits. That foundation jumped out at me. And that opening question, “What can I help you with?”, is a powerful signal of support and leadership.

It got me thinking: Why isn’t this the norm?

Why do we so often wait until annual review season, when tensions run high and conversations feel more like interrogations, to ask meaningful questions?

After 25 years in the industry, I’ve had more than one boss with the “you know your job, just do it” mindset. Even when I asked for regular conversations, I was met with silence, except at review time.

Now I see the cost of that silence: missed opportunities for support, wasted chances to problem-solve, and a lack of connection that hurts everyone — employee, manager, and the business.

We can talk about how these meetings help with mental health, offer space to understand challenges, and create room to celebrate wins. But for me, they simply show that the manager cares about being a leader, someone who is trying to get the best from their team.

As I reflected on my friend’s approach, I found myself asking what I’d say to someone who doesn’t get this kind of interaction from their manager. My answer was blunt: 𝑫𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒃 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍… 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕.

How have you been affected by regular, open communication with your boss? And if you’re in a leadership role, when was the last time you asked, “𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩?”

Patio Pondering: Slowing Down to Speed Ahead

This morning I am trying to enjoy my coffee as scattered thunderstorms march across the region and I am replaying the bevy of activities I had the past two days from funerals to podcast recordings to job interviews. All packed into about 36 hours.

The experiences of laying people to eternal rest, a finality balanced with the hope of a job interview seem to be somewhat of a Yin-Yang. Add to it the excitement of two very different podcast guests and my brain needs a few minutes to rest and reset. Coffee is helping but the thoughts keep rolling like the chyron at the bottom of a cable business network.

How do we as managers recognize when our employees need some "down time" to reset and recharge? What mechanisms do you have in place for your team to give them a few moments to relax their brains?

In a recent job interview the hiring manager talked about "Tech Days" where his team completely blacked out a day a month just for the tech team to do what they needed to do: summarize research trials, research topics, catch up on reading scientific journals, rest their brains. This concept seems like a great idea for teams that have many dotted-line responsibilities. As the personnel landscape continues to evolve we need to be receptive to running our offices differently, have flexibility in how people work, and be cognizant of mental fatigue that can debilitate an employee and a team.

I'm sitting here doing exactly what I'm writing about - taking a moment to let my brain catch up with everything that's happened. Maybe that's the answer right there. Sometimes the best thing we can do for our people is just give them permission to pause.

What do you think? How do you help your team reset?

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞?

Yesterday was full—attending a funeral, recording two podcast episodes, and publishing another. By the time I looked up, it was 10:30 p.m.

As I wandered upstairs after shutting down my computer, I realized I had been working almost nonstop for hours. Not out of obligation or pressure, but because I was in the groove. Focused. Energized.

But that moment got me thinking: how many times in the past have I lost track of the sun or the clock while deep in the zone? And how often have I let that “groove” push aside everything else: my schedule, my health, or even my family?

There’s a fine line between productive flow and unhealthy imbalance. And I’m not sure I always know when I’ve crossed it.

How do you manage it?

When you’re deep in a groove, what pulls you back to center?

Patio Pondering: A Quiet Start to the Second Half

Good morning! Sitting here this Monday after Independence Day with my hot cup of coffee, enjoying the birds and insect sounds in our landscaping while catching up on podcasts - it's given me a few moments to reflect.

Usually something "big" jumps into my thoughts to spark a Patio Pondering. Today's quiet time hasn't dropped the seed of a big insight - it's just quiet time. Time for my brain to rest and reset as I prepare for two funerals this week.

My inspiration for starting the second half of 2025 comes from John Wesley's prayer:

"Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can."

Regardless of your religious preference, take these words as inspiration to be better, do better, and treat others better.

Here's to a great second half of 2025!

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.