Editorial / Opinions

For 58 years, now, I’ve proudly worn the uniform of the American farmer and rancher; denim blue jeans made by one of three major manufacturers, plaid work shirts with button-down collars made by one of two companies, caps given away by any number of feed stores, implement dealers, other farms or any one of a thousand agriculture related enterprises, cowboy boots made by either one of the major boot makers, and, when I really have to dress up, my cowboy hat (straw in the summer and felt in the winter).

I’ve spent some time close to the earth in the past few weeks. From sewing grass seed, to picking blueberries, to mulching the family garden with old hay, I’ve been sunburned, tick-bitten and hot and sweaty. My mom and I weeded the potato patch a few Fridays back, and as the sun beat down on us, and sweat ran down our faces, she reminded me that sometimes you have to really spend time in the sun to appreciate the shade.

Summer is here. Temps turn up and those afternoon thunderheads pop up on the horizon and somewhere a shower appears. Deep green colors paint these hills. Round cylinders of hay stand out parked in the fresh cut meadows and polka-dot calves buck and play. A yearling doe had a fawn in my backyard during the first days of June. I went outside to get something in the predawn and spooked him across the flower bed. She found him later in the morning and re-hid him. If a person can’t count their blessings living in the Ozarks, I guess they’re plumb hard to please.

When I grow up, I want to be a weatherman. What else, besides being an economist, can you be wrong more than 50 percent of the time and still keep your good-paying job?

I’ve spent some time close to the earth in the past few weeks. From sewing grass seed, to picking blueberries, to mulching the family garden with old hay, I’ve been sunburned, tick-bitten and hot and sweaty. My mom and I weeded the potato patch a few Fridays back, and as the sun beat down on us, and sweat ran down our faces, she reminded me that sometimes you have to really spend time in the sun to appreciate the shade.

Some years back, while reading of one of the west’s reputation ranches, I spotted a picture of the ranch manager. The eyes, I am told are a direct extension of the brain; the closest one can come to determining what goes on in the mind is by studying the eyes.

When I grow up, I want to be a weatherman. What else, besides being an economist, can you be wrong more than 50 percent of the time and still keep your good-paying job?

It was one of those evenings when you really want to just sit down in front of the computer or the TV and let the evening slip quickly away. Instead, I let Ryan coax me out of his house to go for a walk. On a place he rents, a wet-weather spring had sprung, and I was a little intrigued to see this phenomenon myself.

The normal thing for me to do on the Sunday morning after the Oklahoma Writer’s Federation Conference, held in Oklahoma City, is to fly to Washington D.C. There I join my fellow directors in the nationwide rural electric coops talking to our congressmen and senators about how things are going at home. I know, I know, there’s plenty of sentiment about D.C. in the rank and file folks back in Arkansas and Oklahoma. But here you can’t let party lines or other things derail you. 

I come from a long line of “horse traders.” That’s the term my father always used to describe someone who was very astute at making good deals – and he was among the best I’ve ever seen.  Shrewdly, he could have more fun out of making a good deal on a truck, or tractor, or a bottle calf purchase than normal people could have on an exotic vacation or a day at the ballpark. For so many years, he was afraid he had not passed on that trait to his only son.