A Country Drive

When you grow up on the ranch, driving trucks and pulling trailers becomes second nature.  If you’re going to be any help at all on the ranch, you have to start driving by the time you hit seventh grade.  By that age you take over your mom’s job of driving the truck while dad pushes hay off the back to the cows.  Mom could hardly wait until you got taller than the tires on the one-ton.  Now she doesn’t have to listen to your dad yell “slow down…speed up…quit jerking the clutch.”  It’s your turn to take the abuse.  You learn to drive under the pressure of a “back-seat driver.”  Dad says he is just getting you ready for the time you’ll drive your mom to town for groceries.  He says “she’ll do all the drivin’- you just turn the wheel and push the pedals.”

By the time you’re in the eight-grade you can make turns without knocking down the corner-posts.  Your dad lets you drive on the county farm roads (only from the mailboxes to the cattle guard) and your mom won’t let you near her new Suburban.  Sometimes you confidently drive down dead-end roads with the gooseneck hooked-up knowing you’ll have to back out.  No big deal.  As my dad would say, “no step for a stepper.” Whatever that means.

After a few hundred miles of dirt road driving you hardly notice you have an empty gooseneck trailer behind you.  When it is full of six-weight calves, you just drive a little slower and start hitting the brakes a little sooner.  Piece of cake.  You begin to feel pretty cocky about your driving.  Instead of having both hands on the wheel, you start to hang one arm out the window just like dad.  In time you even begin to talk on the two-way radio with some of the “other hands” on the ranch.  Someday you’ll be the foreman.

By the time you get to ninth grade and start going to high school in town, you’ve driven the tires off of the feed-truck, the bucket-loader, and the quad-runner.  The city kids at school are all jealous of your driving ability.  They still can’t master the simulated driving game on Nintendo.  They ride their bikes to school.  Your mom brings you to town in the Suburban.  You kinda wish she’d drop you off two or three blocks before you get to the school.  It’s embarrassing having your mom drop you off right in front of the flagpole every morning.

Your sophomore year approaches and you become officially eligible for your driver’s license.  It is rather anti-climatic.  Except for the written test.  Dad always just told you to “keep it between the ditches, gun it when you go through the mud, and take the wire-cutters out of your back pocket before you jump in the truck.”  Now all of a sudden, the mean looking lady at the motor vehicle place is giving you a test and asking all sorts of questions about lines and signs.  Yellow lines this, solid lines that, a red sign means what, a picture of a cow on a sign is universal for blah, blah, blah.  Who knows?  Who cares?  You don’t care about the speed limit in a commercial loading zone.  At 16 years-old you simply want to roll the windows down, rev the gas and feel the wind blow through your hair.  Freedom is what you seek, not answers to a stupid test.

When you overcome the written test and you have your license in hand the world changes.  You spend every waking minute thinking about getting a new vehicle.  Your fantasy is owning a three-quarter ton, club-cab truck with a Detroit diesel powerstroke engine, iPod jack and a retractable gooseneck hitch installed by the dealer.  Your reality is getting the 1974 GMC half-ton with a flatbed and a headache rack your dad bought at the last farm dispersal auction over in Waller County.  The paint is faded, the seat has a big hole in the driver’s side, and the blinker switch is a Phillips head screwdriver sticking out of the steering column.  But, you don’t care because it’s yours!

Your new symbol of freedom runs a little rough, but Earl the mechanic at the John Deere dealership, says he’ll help you get it running “smooth as a top.”  Earl’s a good man.  He grew up working for your dad until the bottom fell out of the bean pit, the hog market and the cattle futures all in the same year.  After that he had to get a new job in town, but still thinks of you as his little brother.  He loves your dad and was really the one who taught you how to drive.  And, much to mom’s dismay he was the one who gave you that first pinch of snuff.

Growing up on the ranch teaches you a lot about being a driver in life.  You learn to press the gas and let out the clutch all at the same time.  You learn how to shift gears when the load gets heavy.  You learn that what you drive says a lot about who you are and what you value.  You learn that you care more for people than a pile of metal and rubber.  And, you know you can back a gooseneck down a ditch bank and never turn your head.  You use your mirrors of experience to get you where you need to go.  Keep on truckin’.

The Smell of Success

My nose is big. My nose is powerful. It takes me to places I love. I can follow my nose to fairs and shows around the country. I can inhale the warm memories of my farm youth and I can choke on the smell of times gone bad.

When I close my eyes and draw a deep breath I can return to a different time; a time when the long days of a July summer were spent riding horses, feeding calves, mowing lawns and just being a kid out of school.

Your nose is the same. Not big maybe, but powerful. Of all of our senses, perhaps the sense of smell is our most wonderful. Oh sure, you could argue for any of the other senses, horse sense included and I'd probably agree with you. But go with me for a moment on a journey through the aroma of our country lifestyle.

Growing up on the farm you learn to use your nose as a veterinarian instrument. Once you've smelled the rancid odor of a horse with thrush in its hooves, you don't soon forget. You also don't forget that salty smell of sweat that is absorbed into the saddle pads on a hot summer day. Tack rooms have an ambiance of leather and latigos. Horses have a scent all their own. They smell different than cattle and of course they smell great compared to pigs.

Now that I have mentioned pigs, I know some of you will say they don't smell bad. Well folks, they do. They stink. Not the pigs themselves, they're fine. It is their fecal matter that's the problem. I think it has some chemical compound in it that makes it radioactive. Nuclear waste if you ask me. If you spend much time with pigs, the smell is absorbed into your skin and it follows you around. It is like a porcine pheromone that attracts other pig people. That’s why folks in the pig barns just show pigs. It is a natural attraction, their noses brings them together.

I have a special pair of rubber boots that I wear only when I'm cleaning the pig barn. Really they're a pair of hip waders, you know, the kind duck hunters wear. They come up to the middle of my chest. If they would make a pair of rubber boots that could cover your head when you clean the pig barn, I'd probably have those. Instead, I'm real careful not to splash too much water on the walls. I don't want to get any porcine perfume behind my ears.

I remember the smell of my show steers. I liked smelling their breath when we would lay together in the show barn. Their breathe was laced with the sweet scent of molasses and corn. In an odd sort of way the remnants of their ruminant effervescence smelled good. You knew the steers were comfortable. They didn't hunger for food or attention. They were at peace with themselves and their dinner (regurgitated as it was). I too was at peace.

Sheep really don't have a smell. I can't recall any wonderful childhood memories generated by the smell of my sheep. However, I can remember the time I was teaching high school agriculture and we had a bunch of old ewes decide to check out of this world. The seemed to clump up together at the bottom of the school farm pasture and die. By the time the student feeder said, "Mr. Vernon, some of the ewes aren't coming to the feeder," it was too late. They were blowed up bigger than the Goodyear blimp. They looked like a little fleet of wooly blimps. Their udders looked as if they were in full milk with a set of triplets. (Actually, more like a vet’s fully inflated rubber glove.) When we took the tractor with the front bucket to pick them up, the kid didn't hit the brakes soon enough and one of them exploded. I 'bout lost my lunch with the stench that engulfed us. My eyes burned and I had this gag reflex going on. It was bad. I still crinkle my nose when I think about that dreadful (or dead full) day.

The sheep showbox on the other hand has a very definite smell. The mix of lanolin, sheep dip and clipper oil has a manly smell. Not some Yankee candle, vanilla flavored, Martha Stewart smell. Nope, a sheep showbox smells like a cross between a Briggs and Stratton motor and a hundred year-old Bourbon. It will singe the hairs on your nose if you breathe too deep. Some folks can get intoxicated with the smell of a sheep showbox. I do not.

Growing up on the farm there all kinds of smells. Close you eyes, take a deep breath and travel in time to the day the alfalfa field across the road was just cut. Or, the refreshing scent of the moments after a summer storm has passed. Take the mental step into the feed room and smell the grain. It may remind you of your youth or it may leave you shaking your head when you think about how much money you spend feeding your animals.

Close you eyes and remember the musty, "Old Spice" scent of your grandpa. Smile and take a sniff of your mother's country kitchen on a Saturday morning. Smell the bacon and listen to the sizzle. That's the simple life.

Use your nose to lead in the right direction. If it smells good, go there. If it smells bad you'll know what to do. Use you nose to find the smell of success.

Corndogs and Cotton Candy

Corndogs, cotton candy, and county fairs. This is stuff that holds American families together.  Think about it.  When you go to county fairs and see people eating corndogs and cotton candy, there are always kids near by. Some are chronologically gifted children who have been around awhile, their grey hair thinning and their girth a bit wider, but the others are the reasons we go to the fair–the real kids in the crowd.  Corndogs, cotton candy, and county fairs exist for the young ones with spasms of laughter in their bellies, kindness in their hearts, and waves of anticipation as they wait to ride the “Hammerhead.”

For country folk like me, county fairs are a nostalgic event.  They remind me of a time in our country when family values meant something. There is something special about seeing kids proudly display their “colors” and getting the support of their parents.  Unlike the troubled inner city teens locked in a downward spiral of gangs, violence, and death, the kids of the county have found value in wearing the green of the 4-H gang and the blue and gold of the FFA gang.  I wished more kids wore these colors and belonged to these types of gangs– the kind of gangs we think about when we remember Spanky and Alfalfa.  Gangs of innocence and fun.

County fairs are about our communities.  They help us to recognize goodness in our lives.  It is important we pick young girls to be fair queens.  It helps them grow up to be confident, self-assured women.  It is appropriate we reward the “cattleman of the year” at the fair.  Afterall, that is likely where he spent some of his childhood–in the feed allies and showrings at the end of a stick and leadshank showing cattle.  It is right that we dedicate buildings to home economics and farming.  Displays of food and fiber remind us of the splendor of American agriculture and the art of producing delicious pies, intricate quilts of cotton, and jellies that make your mouth water.

I could go to a fair, never get past the livestock barns and get as many thrills as riding the bobsleds, or farris wheels.  But these thrills are different.  More subtle.  Slower, less manic.  I get a thrill out of seeing a barrow that looks like Schwarzenegger, a lamb that braces like a statue, or a steer with a coat of velvet and a top as thick as a NFL linebacker.  It is exciting for me to see a 13 year-old 4-H’er know how to handle a pair of Listers and a set of parents confident enough to leave the kid alone.  I enjoy walking through a barn with the hum of the fans, the coolness of the misters, and the electricity of excitement that comes from knowing the show is about to begin.

More people should eat corndogs and cotton candy.  While you may disagree about the effects they have on your heart, I hope you’ll agree they are good for your soul.  Corndogs and cotton candy help us remember the kids–­the ones trapped in the bodies of CEOs, registered nurses, schoolteachers, computer programmers, and all the other folks whom long for a simpler, slower time.  Corndogs and cotton candy help us share with our children the rich agricultural heritage of our communities captured at the county fair.

Eat up, have a big time at the fair, and I’ll see you in the winner’s circle!

Farmers and Ranchers Are Not the Same

The English language is one of the hardest languages in the world to learn. It has so many confusing rules and then there are exceptions to those rules. Words can sound the same yet mean something very different. The words to, two or too are a prime example. Also, whine and wine have completely different outcomes if you partake of too much of either! Too much of one will have folks thinking you are a crybaby, too much of the other and folks will know you’re a sick crybaby. English words are funny that way. In agriculture we have funny words too and there are exceptions to those funny words.

Farmers and ranchers sound like they are the same things. But they are different as night and day. Farmers are plant people and ranchers are animal people– most of the time. Like I said, there are exceptions to the rules–think pig farmer.

Farmers and ranchers are all involved in production agriculture, but they approach their callings in different ways. Farmers wear mesh caps given to them from the local tractor dealerships. The color of the cap communicates a farmer’s allegiance a brand. Green screams John Deere. Blue yells Ford. Guys wearing golden caps drive CATS, big CATS! Farmers will wear the same hat for all occasions, you know, weddings, graduations, Farm Bureau meetings and harvest celebrations.

Ranchers wear cowboy hats and caps. It depends on the function. Old ranchers will wear only silver belly cowboy hats like to good guys wore in western movies. Young ranchers will wear black cowboy hats sometimes and silver belly hats at other times. It depends if they’re at a bull sale or a team roping. Young ranchers also wear caps. But not like the farmers’ mesh caps. Nope, young ranchers wear the Imperial brand caps they buy from the rope dealers. Cactus Ropes and Classic Ropes have cool caps.

Farmers wear Red Wing lace-up boots, Carhartt jackets and Levi jeans. Ranchers wear Justin Ropers, goose down vests and Wrangler jeans. Farmers don’t iron anything and many ranchers wouldn’t leave the house without heavy starch and a crease in their jeans.

Farmers and ranchers all drive trucks. Farmers have winches, toolboxes and bumper vices on their trucks. Ranchers have headache racks, hitches and dogs on their trucks. Generally speaking a rancher’s truck is cleaner than a farmer’s truck; however, you’ll find both ranchers and farmers who have a dashboard full of parts receipts, cigars, pliers, cupcake wrappers, empty Copenhagen cans and duct tape.

Farmers ride iron horses. Ranchers ride Quarter horses. Farmers get excited about going to farm equipment shows. They like to spend all day talking ‘bout motors, horsepower and gear ratios. Farmers drool over the latest tractors and implements the dealers and manufacturers trot out each year. They’ll crawl up in the cab of a John Deere 9300 four-wheel drive, 360 horsepower tractor with a Powertech, fuel-efficient engine and a “Command View” cab with 62 square feet of tinted glass and think they’ve died and gone to heaven. Farmers will grumble about how farming is too tough right now to buy a new tractor, but next year will be better.

Even though ranchers ride horses, they don’t get excited about going to horse shows. Horse shows are for teenage girls who love horses, live in town, board their horses at their trainers, wear too much make-up and have more silver on their bridles than grandma has in her heirloom silverware set. Ranchers go to ropins’ and rodeos. They love watching Ty Murray ride bulls and remember the times they rode old momma cows in “Little Britches” rodeos down at the Shady Acres Arena. Old ranchers may be missing the thumb that got caught in their dally at Ft. Worth in ‘76, but they’ll still be roping every Thursday evening at the Guthrie Jackpot Arena.

Farmers go to farm equipment auctions. Ranchers go to livestock sale barns. They all spend too much money at any auction they attend– it’s genetic. Farmers will buy stuff just for parts they’ll never need. Or, they’ll buy a whole pallet of cotton picker spindles just to get the trailer hitch that was lying on top of the pile.

Ranchers will spend all day at the local sale barn to see how their neighbor’s calves sold. And, they will complain about the steer buyers being coyotes, how feed is too high and the grass is too short. Ranchers really go to sale barns for Ms. Mabel’s peach cobbler and a cup of coffee. But, they’ll end up paying a dime over market for a load of used- up Corrientes to practice roping with in the sorting corrals.

Farmers are members of the Grange and Farm Bureau. Ranchers are members of the Cattlemen’s Association and the American Quarter Horse Association. Farmers and ranchers go to a bunch of meetings, they enjoy the company of their peers. Sometimes they all meet together. When they do it is usually at the Wagon Wheel Coffee Shop down by the Co-op on Farm to Market road 236.

Even though farmers and ranchers do things different, they do one thing the same and they do it very well. They support kids who want to grow up and be farmers and ranchers. Farmers and ranchers love kids and will do anything to help the local high school agriculture department, the 4-H, the FFA and other farm youth organizations. 

My Happy Place

We all have one - you know, your happy place. For some it is by the beach, for others it is in the mountains. For me it is now. Now is my happy place; today, this moment, this minute. It is not yesterday and it is not tomorrow because I have no control over tomorrow and I cannot change history. So I choose to live in the now. It hasn't alway been that way, I used to think too far ahead and look longingly to the past. While useful, that way of living didn't really bring the satisfaction I have living in nowville. Now is my happy place.

Don't get me wrong, thinking ahead is important, but not for finding true happiness. It is helpful to look ahead so you can enjoy what you are doing today. It gives me a sense of accomplishment to know I'm headed somewhere productive.

Looking back can be instructive as well. It helps me not make the same mistakes I have made in the past. I don't look to the past to rely on my present day happiness. Sure, it was fun back in the day and I have some great memories of some special times. I just don't spend a lot of time wishing for days I lived in the past. With that said, I am still sentimental about particular moments, people, places and things. They make me happy now, just as they made me happy then.

Now is it. Truth be told, it is all I got. It is really all anybody has; this moment.

Why is now so happy? Lots of reasons I suppose, but mostly because I choose to be happy. Always have, even though at times, it was very difficult. We all have the ability to be happy if we choose to be happy. Some people don't make that choice. And, yes, it is a choice.

I'm pretty simple in my ultimate desires. I want to be a good dad, a good teacher and a good man. That's it. I'm not looking to accumulate large sums of money, drive the fanciest car or live in the biggest house. I do o.k. in that regard. Comfortable is good. I could do a little better, but I don't sit around moping about what I don't have...that is not my happy place.

I see lots of people racing around trying to find their happy place. To me it looks exhausting and sort of counter productive. People seem miserable trying to be happy. That's too bad. I feel for them, but I understand we don't all have the same happy place.

Finding my happy place has been a blessing in my life. I found it early enough in life to spend a significant amount of time there enjoying the view. Everyday I get to smile. What a joy it is to know happiness!

I wished everybody could find their happy place. It would make this world a better place. The fact is, it ain't gonna happen. But that knowledge won't stop me, 'cause all I have is now and I can't waste it on those who want to wallow in pity, drama and unhealthy choices.

Being happy doesn't mean I run around all giddy (all "shits and giggles" as my dad would say). That would be crazy. I smile on the inside more often than I smile on the outside...nonetheless, I smile. Those who know me, know I am not that quick to laugh. I'm funny on the inside. I find my own private joy. I'm selfish that way, it's my happiness. That is all I can control. Other people's happiness is their deal. I can't make them happy. That is not my job.

I hope you find your happy place. I found mine.


Scott

A Middle Pair Switch Changed My Life

I used to be a high school agriculture teacher back in the day at Chowchilla High School in Chowchilla, California. Second best job I have ever had - my current job at Cal Poly is pretty good, but for different reasons. Teaching high school and college is not the same, but each is rewarding. As a college teacher I get to see results faster as my students start their careers.

Chowchilla was a little cowboy, farming community of about 4,500 when I was there learning my profession and shaping young minds. The high school had a little more than 500 kids. Half of them took ag classes. We had six ag teachers and what many considered to be one of the best agriculture programs in the country. We were even featured in a national television documentary. Eddie Albert of Green Acres fame spent some time with us while making the documentary. He was old then. He is dead now. Nice guy, but couldn't remember his lines to save his ass.

We were a little competitive.

O.K., we were a LOT competitive. We liked to win in everything we pursued with the FFA program. I had a sign over my desk that said, "I'd rather dance around all day in a tutu than come in second." We set all kinds of records, state and national, in various areas of competition. We'd like to think we were humble in victory and gracious in defeat, but you'd have to ask all the folks we beat along the way. They didn't like us very much.

I coached many different judging teams and career development events. Oddly enough, computer science in agriculture competitions proved to be my greatest success with the kids. Go figure. I didn't even like computers and had only taken one computer class in college. Hated it. But, we had state and national winners for several consecutive years.

My love was coaching the Livestock Judging Team. We ran up and down the state practicing and competing at contests. Miles and miles, hours upon hours evaluating livestock. Didn't really seem like work to me. My goal was to win a state championship. I wanted to flex my muscles as a young ag teacher and show all the old dogs how to play the game. Ooops. My team got beat like a kitchen rug the first year. I started asking more questions of the older teachers and I really listened. After that first year, we started getting our name called more often and ultimately started winning at contests everywhere except at the State Finals. Top five at state, but to a punk like me who wants to win, that wasn't enough.

After four or five years of "being in the hunt" I finally had a team of great livestock kids. They could place 'em, they could talk 'em. My sixth year was the year we'd get  to the top. I staked my future on it.

In the meantime, I had my sights set on other ambitions in my profession. I wanted to get my Ph.D. and get to the college level at some distant point in the future. Funny how things change.

After visiting Colorado State University, Penn State, Ohio State and Texas A&M University I figured I better set some definite plans if I was going to go back to school for a doctorate degree. They were all pretty serious and interested in having me attend. Hindsight tells me they all clamor for doctoral students, so I wasn't as special as I thought when I visited their campuses.

As I headed into my sixth year of high school teaching I decided, "This will be my last year unless....unless my livestock judging team wins the state championship." If they do, all bets are off. I was committed to coaching them through to the national finals the following fall. Then we'd have to defend our title the following spring!

We worked hard and it seemed like the planets were aligning for us that year. We were winning fairly consistently at all the contests. We felt good going into the state finals held in May at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo. This would be our year!

When the kids came out of the contest they felt like they nailed it. In the contest critique, things changed. My kids missed a middle pair on a market hog class. They switched it with the officials. If I recall, the cut was three or four points. I wasn't too concerned because it was a reasons class and these kids could talk a three point cut. We'd be o.k. They got all the other classes right.

We lost by two points.

I started my doctoral program at Texas A&M University four months later.

We never won a state championship in livestock judging. And you know what, I'm o.k. with that because losing open up more doors of opportunity than my little competitive pea brain could have ever imagined. A middle pair switch changed my life forever...in a good way. Ironically, I help put on the state finals livestock judging contest every year now- have for twenty years. I manage the tabulations. I feel for those good teams that switch a pair. It can change your life. No pressure.

No. I didn't wear a tutu.


Scott

View From The Auction Block

Growing up on our small ranch, my biggest thrill was being with my dad. We'd build fence, feed the cattle, ride horses, work on tractors and do the things fathers and sons do in rural America. It was the day-to-day values that stuck with me.

I really enjoyed it when we took cattle to the local sale barn or when we would go to pick up some stocker cattle. Life at the sale barn was fun. The food was good. The pace was quick and the people were friendly. Like any kid I was mesmerized by the auctioneers and the magical, rythmic way they spoke. At first it was a foreign language, but after a while I began to understand.

I wanted to become an auctioneer. Like the famous LeRoy Van Dyke song about becoming an auctioneer, I practiced day and night out behind the barn. I started working at the sale barn when I was just a kid. In doing so I learned more about the thrill of being an auctioneer. People looked up to the guy on the mic.

When I got to high school, my boss, the famous Hoke Evetts let me sell baby calves and goats. I probably wasn't very good, but I got along just fine. The backyard buyers didn't seem to mind a young budding colonel on the block. The order buyers had little patience for a rookie.

In college, it became my job. It put me through school. I didn't have to have a real job like the other students. I made money talking fast. I learned the trade. Got a silver belly hat, some lizard boots, starched monogrammed shirts and Wranglers. Hey, if I was gonna be an auctioneer, I wanted to make sure I looked like one. I knew there was a uniform. Yea, a real big shot.

In the more than thirty-five plus years since I stepped up on the auction block I have sold tens of millions of dollars of farm equipment, purebred and commercial livestock and my share of country bizaars. I've been able to travel all over the country. It has been a good ride. I have been paid a good wage and met lots of interesting people. Each auction is different, yet the same. I have enjoyed keeping track of market conditions in a variety of areas. It helps keep me connected to the industry and the people I love.

There have been times I thought about auctioneering full time, but I'm selfish. I get the best of all worlds. I get to teach about agriculture during the week and chase auctions on the weekends. I did three last weekend. Got a few more in the coming weeks.

In all this, the coolest thing is my youngest son Kyler is now becoming an auctioneer. Like my dad did with me, I take him to auctions. He loves it when he gets to call a few bids. Otherwise he is happy spending hours as a talented and persuasive bid spotter. He is getting pretty good. In time, he may be a champion - a path I never chased. He is 10 years-old.

He told me today, "Dad, I'm gonna buy a ranch with my auctioneer money." That's great. "Then I'll buy my plane."

My view from the auction block is different now, I get to watch over the shoulder of a fearless kid who talks fast, wears a big silver buckle, a silver belly hat, starched jeans and snap button shirt. Lil' Colonel Kyler is on his way.

Thanks dad.


Scott

Making History

A little over a year ago a movement to help American family farmers and ranchers started out of frustration with...oddly enough, California family farmers and ranchers. The movement? "I Love Farmers...They Feed My Soul." http://www.ilovefarmers.org/

California agriculture got its collective ass kicked in an election by a group of radical animal rights people...the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). It was called Proposition 2. In essence, HSUS spent millions of dollars on a campaign to get voters to vote yes on legislation that will forever effect how farmers and ranchers will do business. Don't believe everything you read, but you can find out more at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_Proposition_2_(2008)

This big debacle changed the landscape of animal agriculture in America. It started a war that will be waged in every state over time. There will be blood. California agriculture was the first casualty. Like Pearl Harbor, farmers and ranchers where caught off guard never expecting such a well planned and sophisticated attack on their production practices. We tried to fight with science and fiscal logic. They killed us with emotion and horrific (by anyone's standards) images of pitiful looking farm animals.

Anyways, I saw how poorly those of us in agriculture responded and knew something must be done. Consumers do not understand our industry and quite frankly, could care less about "agriculture." But, based on many studies, they do like and trust "farmers." Agriculture to many people is a faceless enemy; however, farmers and ranchers are hardworking, humble and honest people who toil everyday on the working landscapes of our rural communities. They can't be all bad. People love farmers and I thought we should do something to remind consumers and voters of the value of American family farmers and ranchers. Let's connect emotionally! Everybody eats and loves food. Let's hit 'em in their belly and their hearts; their heads will follow.

With a band of young people and a colorful logo, I set out to have some fun while doing something very serious. Having taught for the past 26 years, I know a thing or two about kids. So we printed up a bunch of t-shirts, developed a website and launched a full scale frontal attack using social media. We sold a bunch of shirts and hats, we did a bunch press interviews and we started a national conversation about farmers and ranchers. Our Facebook group grew by the thousands each day. Today we have nearly 27,000 in our group. People from literally all over the world were sending us emails. Holy crap. This deal is getting huge, "I Love Farmers...They Feed My Soul" was everywhere! We were getting everywhere and nowhere at the same time. We like to say our "passion is deep, but our pockets are shallow."

Early on we were  blessed with the leadership and vision of the California Women for Agriculture (CWA). These ladies took a risk and partnered with us to launch a couple of projects and helped us get our feet under us, so to speak. CWA members Celeste Settrini and JoAnn Wall became our biggest cheerleaders when we went to the CWA Board. The collective leadership of these ladies has been tremendous! They took a risk. I know that, but I also know, if I say I'm gonna do something, I do it. It has worked out really well. If you see a pink I Love Farmers...They Feed My Soul shirt you'll know that is CWA and us working together. Find out more about them at http://californiawomenforagriculture.com/

A young lady named Annalisa Clarke managed the day-to-day operations. She did a great job. But as you all know, ya still gotta pay the bills and well, this deal wasn't paying the bills. She now works for U.S. AgriSeeds and is doing well.

We weren't set up in a way people could understand. Hell, we were evolving by the minute. The young people were a loose knit group of kids "looking for the yellow brick road" that would get people back to the farm. I was the grey haired wizard of oz behind the strategic curtain.

Fast forward.

We learned a lot in the past 18 months. We knew we had to mature. We had to change. And as fate would have it, young people don't mind change. They agreed to make some changes to this little project that got way outta hand. We needed to be a non-profit, tax exempt organization if we were to go to the next level of "agvocacy."

Cool. Do you know how expensive and convoluted that bureaucratic process is? Good Lord.

Ah, but there were some other angels who blessed us! The California Cattle Women! They agreed to support the legal fees needed to get us transitioned to a non-profit organization. It has been a long, but exciting journey.  http://www.cattlewomen.org/

Tonight we made history. A newly formed, first ever Board of Directors met at the Apple Farm Restaurant in San Luis Obispo, California. Its first order of business was to ratify the founding by-laws of "I Love Farmers...They Feed My Soul." Its official.

In the coming days you'll hear more about these pioneering young leaders who make up the board. You'll be impressed.

I don't know about you, but over the years I have served on several non-profit boards. It seemed rather easy. Simple really. Do some good work and they keep you around, elect you to office and it's business as usual. Not a big deal, just part of trying to do your part for your industry, community, school...whatever.

Well, this is the first time I have been at the founding meeting of a non-profit organziation that will hopefully be a household name when you talk about American family farmers and ranchers! It feels good. I'm excited. Tonight I was a small part of history.

By the way - we could use your support. Buy a shirt. You too can be a part of history!

Scott

A Day on the Enchanted Hill

Hearst Castle was built by publisher William Randolph Hearst in the early 1900's in San Simeon, California overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Julia Morgan was the famed architect. It truly is a castle on a hill. They call it the Enchanted Hill.  The Hearst Family gave it to the State of California in the 1950's. It is now part of the state park system. Thousands upon thousands of tourists visit it each year. I've toured the Castle several times over the years. Worth the ticket. http://www.hearstcastle.org/

What the visitors don't tour is the Hearst's Piedra Blanca Rancho adjacent to the Castle. It is still in the Hearst Family and is a working cattle ranch. It isn't a tourist venue. A little place...just 250,000 of the most beautiful (and valuable) acres in all the world.

Today I was at the ranch in meetings with my colleagues. I know, rough duty, but ya gotta meet somewhere. We were the guests of Roland Camacho, the Cattle Operations Manager. He is a nice guy working to provide the very best quality grass fed beef they can raise. He knows his stuff. Says all the right things and is a  good spokesperson for what our American ranchers are doing to meet consumer demands. It was all very interesting. I must admit however, I was distracted by the view! See for yourself at http://www.hearstranch.com/.

Wow.

It is difficult to imagine that one family could be so blessed as to have this much square footage of heaven. I think even God might be a little jealous. This vistas are breathtaking -- even for a guy like me who lives along the Central Coast of California just minutes from the nearest beach. I see the ocean everyday, but not from the heights I saw today. These are the views that get etched in your memory and provide comfort when times get crazy.

I look forward to returning to the ranch. The beauty of nature so grand will never get old.

Scott

What's in a Eulogy?

Long time NBC reporter and anchor Edwin Newman died recently. Current NBC anchorman Brian Williams announced it on the news tonight. Sad news. I remember Newman in black and white when I watched him on television as a kid. He was a good one.

What struck me was the on-air "eulogy" Williams offered. As one would expect from a colleague, Williams spoke of Newman's many professional accomplishments. Newman was a great journalist by any measure. He reported big stories from around the world. He reported Kennedy's assassination. He informed the world of Dr. King's murder. He did it right. Honest. Fair. Objective.

What seemed missing from Williams' remarks were any accolades of Newman's personal life. He was married. He had a daughter. How did he do as a husband? A father? I would venture that while he was building his career, he spent many nights away from his family. A sacrafice I'm sure. It was a different time back then. Considering the stand-up guy he was, I bet he was a good husband and dad. I don't know.

I do know this...

My eulogy should be simple (and hopefully a long time from now). It won't take long to capture my essence. All ya gotta say is, "he was a good dad." That's enough. That is what matters. Don't wax poetic about my career. My boys won't want to hear it. They don't care that I won some awards here and there or that I had a pretty good run doing something I loved. They need to hear, "your dad loved you more than anything in the world."

We could use a few more journalists like Edwin Newman these days. His integrity will be missed.

And, well, we could use a few more good dads too. Kids need that.


Scott

My Scenery Never Changes

I tease my friends in private industry that, in my job, the scenery never changes. They scoff at my "whoa is me" disclaimer. Why? Well, I am a teacher. Cal Poly State University in San Luis Obispo is where I ply my trade.

Every fall for the past 20 years, I return to campus to greet a new group of young people who will change the world. They are smart, fit, eager, naive, have beautiful straight white teeth and are 18 years old. The rest of 'em are 19 to 23 years old. Yea, they too are gorgeous kids. I have shoes older than most of them. My scenery is great. I see the future everyday!

This week, we begin again. We start later than most universities–but we get out later than them on the back side of the school year. I kinda like it that way. For a brief period everybody is in school but us. They groan while I put the finishing touches on a late summer tan.

My old students will stop by and we'll catch up on summer. My new students will pace back and forth in front of my office, not sure if they should bother me. Bother me?  Hell no, get your ass in here – without you there is no need for me. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" The process begins.

For those who know the answer to that question, we map a plan for them to get there. Who do they need to know in the next four years? Let's make it happen! For those who shrug their shoulders and say "I dunno" they get to stay in my office longer. How can I help them get past "I dunno" if I don't know what makes 'em tick? Sometimes I do not ask them what they want to do, I tell them what to do. I'm an action oriented kinda guy. They soon learn you don't get anywhere being, what I call a "wondering generality." Sure, all who wonder are not lost, but some of these geniuses (and I mean that) haven't a clue about what is ahead. In time they figure it out.

They're in college! They think they've made it. Ooops, big mistake. College is not a destination. It is a step along the path to your life's purpose. This little joyride comes to an end. You better figure out which way you are gonna exit this big 'ol ferris wheel! Calmly going to the next ride or screaming like a two-year old wanting to suck on the binky (mom and dad) a little longer!

Don't feel sorry for me. My scenery is pretty good...it keeps me young. But some of 'em need to pull their damn pants up. Son, you're in college now.

Scott

Cannot Edit History

You cannot edit history. It happened. Like many around the world I needed to do something to relieve the pain we all felt. On that day I wrote. This is a piece from that horrible day nine years ago. Much has happened in the world (and in my life) since that day. The world is no longer the same and I am no longer married. But I share with you my thoughts on that day.

Today I Cried
Today I cried. But I was not alone. Today I prayed. But I was not alone. Today I mourned. But I was not alone. Today is Sept. 11, 2001. America has been shot through the heart with poisoned arrows filled with innocent people. Shot from the bows of hatred and cowardice, these arrows flew swiftly and quietly through the morning air. On impact, they were shots heard around the world. Today the world cries. Today the world prays. Today the world mourns.

In June my wife Rosemary and I vacationed in Honolulu, Hawaii. We stayed on Waikiki Beach in a hotel room with an ocean view. We enjoyed the beautiful white sand beaches and the tropical warmth of this island paradise. During the day we would swim in the salty refreshment of the Pacific. In the evening we would venture through the busy streets of town. One night we went to the movies. We had one movie in mind, Pearl Harbor.

As we sat there in the darkness of the theatre we were stunned by the horror of a long ago truth. America had been attacked. It was ugly. It was sad. It was impossible that it could ever happen again. Or so we thought.

On the last day of our stay, we toured the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. We were among the hundreds to visit the memorial on this particular Sunday. Some of the visitors were kids. Some were old and gray. Some of the tourists were from foreign lands, Japan included. Each visitor, I’m sure had different perspectives of the significance of the memorial and of the events that day in history, Dec. 7, 1941. The young perhaps bored, the old perhaps tired. As for me, I was reflective and sad. My visit brought back memories of my dad who died a couple of years ago, but who served our country as an officer in the Navy. He was just a child during WWII, but served more than 23 years, some of those years stationed at Pearl Harbor in the late ‘60’s.

On the ferry ride from the docks of the harbor to the Arizona Memorial that spans the width of the sunken battleship, I looked upward to the mountain range in the distance. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the Japanese fighter planes as they crested the mountains zeroing in on their sleeping targets lined up like ducks on a firing range. In my mind I heard the noise. On my skin I felt a chill. In my heart I felt the pain. But in my soul I felt safe. Safe because this is America and Americans are smart. We learn from our experiences. We grow from our mistakes. And an attack like this could never happen again. Not in America.

It happened. We received a 911 call we never expected. We must learn new lessons. Now is a time to think clearly; a time to embrace life, even as the smoking pile of rubble buries the hopes and dreams of husbands and wives, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors. Today is a new day in America, a day when the foundations of our buildings are questioned, but the foundations of our spirits are strengthened by the bonds of our faith.

Today we begin to build a new future. It will be built one day at a time. Some days we’ll make great progress. On other days our gains will be few. But we will succeed in creating a place in our hearts where hope lives and love prospers. In time our smiles will return and serve as a monument to a new America.

Even though today the streets of New York look like the gateway to Hell, there is a lady in the harbor who stands tall and will continue to welcome those who seek freedom. She is a beacon of hope to a new generation of immigrants; a generation of Americans crossing the abyss of today’s emotions in search of a safe country. She will help us find a new home in our old houses. In the days ahead she will be our night light against the evil that lurks in the dark. She is the Statue of Liberty.

We will all remember today. We will see the smoke. We will hear the noise. We will see the tears and we will feel the fears. But will we remember why? We will remember today because a piece of us died with the friends we never met. We will remember today because a piece of us was reborn–a patriotic, compassionate piece. We will remember today because we are alive. We have today. We wish for tomorrow, we long for yesterday.

America will win the battle of freedom because we are united in our goal, passionate in our purpose and dedicated to a constitution that guides our action.

Today is all you’ve got. Use it to make a positive difference. Your family needs you, your community needs you and America needs you.

God speed.

And so it began...

For months now, people have told me I should start a blog. I know. It is all the rage. But I am a simple man. Pretty quiet really. I have deep thoughts from time-to-time; however, who cares, we all have our opinions. Each has value. Mine are mostly private, with a few entertaining slips of the tongue here and there–nothing that will save the world. I'll leave that to Al Gore and his mistress.

And so, here it is– my blog.

Over time I will share some thoughts about things that are real to me. I'm a dad. Got two boys. They are the fuel that feeds my passion. We have a blast. I'm not their friend, I'm their dad so I take that very seriously. My single-minded purpose is to raise good men. We'll be friends when they get older. For now, they need to make their beds and take out the trash.

I like a lot of things. I pay attention. I enjoy a good laugh, a cold beer and a smooth cigar. Life isn't that complicated to me. I don't make mountains out of molehills. Doing right by others and remembering what my parents taught me has served me well. I'll keep doing that until the evidence proves a better way.

So thanks for coming along. Have a good time and let's keep it simple.

Scott