The Four Seasons Of Farming

Spring is my favorite time of the year.

Spring, a time when Life renews itself, throwing off the frosty shackles of Winter. It heralds the beginning of a new cycle, a time when Life seems to overflow.

From the marshland, choirs of frogs greet each sunrise
with their age-old reptilian serenade. Migrating waterfowl
join the chorus, their songs a celebration.

The Earth itself is part of this rejuvenation. A warm
breeze carries with it the aroma of freshly turned soil.
Each handful of moist, black dirt contains uncountable
billions of microbes who are busily decaying organic matter,
making more soil, giving the land its "earthy" fragrance.
And the flowers! As the days lengthen my wife's flower
garden becomes a riot of color, tulips and crocuses who defy
the frosty nights just so they can dazzle us with their
splendor. The perfume from the blooming lilacs is utterly
intoxicating.

But Summer is really the best time of the year.
Summer is a time when Life enters a phase of growing,
nurturing. The days wax long and twilight lingers as if the
sun were loath to take leave. The summer solstice arrives.
Fat baby calves frisk in the morning sunshine amidst
lush green pastures. A father robin warbles mightily from a
tree top, a song of joy which is both new and ancient. In the
marsh, a mother Canada goose honks proudly as she glides
through the glassy water with a string of fuzzy goslings in
tow.

Farmers are their busiest now, making the most of this
warm and glorious season. What fragrance better portrays
Summer than that which rises from a field of freshly cut hay?
When they gather, farmers may speak either ill or good of
rain - depending on whether or not they have hay down. Their
kids play in the cool recesses of the grove, squandering this
time as if there were an unlimited supply of lazy afternoons.
But Fall is really the choicest time of the year.
Fall is the season of harvest, a time for gathering in
against the future. September brings the autumnal equinox;
the days grow quickly shorter.

The trees are putting on their best show now, splashes
of ruby and gold against the sapphire dome of the sky. The
evening air has a definite crispness now and sound seems to
carry better. A freight train laden with Fall's bounty blows
its mighty air horn; the lonely wail can be heard across the
miles, a mournful hymn punctuated by the "clack, clack" of
wheels upon rails.

A neighbor harvests his soybeans in the gathering dusk,
his combine belching a cloud of dust which lingers in the
tranquil air. I hear the whistle of wings and look up in time
to see a flock of teal streak over. I watch them and they
swiftly fade into a group of specks in the southern sky.
But Winter is truly the finest time of the year.

Winter is a time when the Sun becomes a snow bird,
spending most of the season in warmer climes. My only company
when I perform my morning and evening chores are the stars -
ancient sentinels who look down, cold and unblinking, across
the light years.

But Winter is also a time of celebration, of family, of
good food and good company. Nothing is more delightful than
coming in from the cold and being greeted by a wall of
luscious aromas emanating from a warm kitchen. In my opinion
this simple pleasure is one of civilization's finest
achievements.

And Winter is also a time for rest. It is a time for
early bedtimes, as though some forgotten instinct is
entreating us to hibernate. The rhythms of Life slow.
Each night, an airplane wings past my farm on its
scheduled voyage to somewhere.

Sometimes I'll lay quietlynext to my slumbering wife

and await its arrival. I'll finally hear it coming and can

detect the shift in its tone as it drones on past. I think

about how lonely it must be up there in the cockpit, to

be awake while others sleep, to trek through the infinite

blackness of the Winter night.

I wonder if the pilot ever thinks about us below. I imagine his
perspective of the dark planet which lies slumbering beneath
him, frozen and silent, covered by a flawless quilt of snow.

I push these thoughts aside, snuggle up to my wife and pull
the covers up closer.

And in the end, Earth and I both find rest and we both
pass the long Winter night dreaming of Spring.

Old Dogs

We've had a pretty decent winter so far: not too cold, but with enough snowfall to get our attention. In this part of the world we are naturally suspicious of winters that are too mild because we know that no nice weather ever goes unpunished.

Winter is a time when a person had best take advantage
of whatever morsels Mother Nature sees fit to bestow. This is
why, whenever the temperatures moderate and the wind chill is
at least somewhat survivable, I take our dogs out for a walk.
Our dogs' names are Copper and Curly. They are
litter mates, although you'd never guess it: a hybrid of
German Short Hair and Springer Spaniel, each closely
resembles one parent but not the other. Copper is robust and
short-haired, while Curly possesses a humbler build and has
the floppy ears and long, curly hair of a Spaniel.

I often refer to them as "ornamental dogs", although
that isn't quite true. They bark whenever someone pulls onto
the yard, but would probably help a burglar empty our house
in exchange for tummy rubs. They are also fair to middling
hunting companions, that is, if you don't mind yelling
yourself hoarse at that half-witted Copper. He can't seem to
quit chasing a bird until it's well into the next county.
As we walk, I note how old the dogs seem nowadays. Both
are gray around their muzzles; Copper is carrying a bit too
much weight; Curly has a bit of a limp due to (I suspect) an
arthritic hip. In other words, the three of us make for a
fairly well-matched set.

But we can all use the exercise, so off we go. They at
first sniff around out in the trees purposefully, making show
if it, pretending that they are hunting rabbits. Truth is,
the only way they could catch a cottontail these days would
be if a bunny ran smack into one of their legs and knocked
itself out.

Twelve years old: that's late middle age for a dog, I
reckon. I know they are twelve because my wife got them for
our boys the year my dad died. I'm sure she wasn't thinking
that a pair of puppies could ever replace a grandpa. But my
wife, in her infinite wisdom, must have known that these pups
would provide a least a small diversion, a little something
for our boys to think about other than the sudden departure
of their beloved, prankster grandpa.

Copper trots out ahead as usual while Curly and I bring
up the rear. Copper will stop now and again to look back at
us with an expression that says, "What's the hold up? Get
with it, slow pokes!"

Now that I think about it, the dogs are far from
ornamental. Last summer and fall they cornered three
woodchucks, two possums and one raccoon on our yard; we won't
even talk about all their run-ins with skunks. The point is,
they helped hold the number of trespassing varmints to a
minimum. This is certainly worth something.

Since the weather has turned cold my wife, kindhearted
soul that she is, has fallen into the habit of letting the
dogs spend their nights in the mud room of our house. I was
raised in the belief that animals slept outside and that
houses were reserved solely for people. Yet I dare not
complain lest my wife's benevolence turn chilly and I too
find myself out in the cold.

The dogs and I reach the far end of the day's trek and
turn to start the homeward leg. We are a good ways from the
house now, a bad time to recall all the rumors of cougar
sightings in the area. One mountain lion was supposedly seen
just a couple of miles north of where I am walking.

I wonder what a cougar might think of me, plodding along
at a sluggardly pace in my bulky Carhartt coveralls and my
too-heavy snow boots. Would he think, "Hmm... no claws, no
horns, can't run very fast... looks like LUNCH!" I wonder if
the dogs would rush to my aid. Or, would they simply look on
in idle curiosity as a fellow carnivore does what carnivores
do?

I like to think not. I like to think that Copper and
Curly would fly into the fray, fight the ferocious feline and
save my skin. They would be declared doggy heroes, be
featured on morning TV shows and feted at extravagant
soirees. Their dopey, furry faces would soon appear on sacks
of nationally branded dog food.

At least that's what I think every night when I open the
door to the mud room and say, "Hey you guys, come on in!"

Country Boy Visits Big Apple, part 1

There were several very good reasons for my recent
odyssey to New York.
For one, I was to finally personally meet Tim, my
literary agent. Our plan was to bop around the city and
schmooze with some publishers with the goal of landing me
book deal.
My second -- and, as it turned out, easier -- objective
was to bring the Dairy Star to Manhattan, to carry this
humble publication to the center of the media universe.
But how to accomplish this? Would there even be the
slightest bit of interest in the Dairy Star in the Big Apple?
Were there any needs the Dairy Star could meet there?
The answer to these questions came minutes after my
shoes hit the pavement of Manhattan.
I was walking towards Times Square when my march was
halted by a gay pride march. At the very end of the parade
was a couple of guys brandishing bull whips. They made
frequent demonstrations of their whipping skills, sending
loud cracks and pops echoing through the concrete canyons.
I knew then and there that the Dairy Star was indeed
needed in Manhattan. After all, here were a couple of guys
who obviously had unrequited fantasies about careers as cow
pushers, but there was not a cow in sight for them to push.
I thought about approaching these guys and telling them
that they could easily fulfill their fantasies through a
classified ad in the Dairy Star, but reconsidered when it
became apparent they wouldn't quit whipping long enough for
me to get near them. I will do SOME things to flog the Dairy
Star, but would definitely draw the line at being publicly
flogged.
I pushed on until I finally reached Times Square, a
place that has been touted as the most recognizable piece of
real estate in the world. A steady stream of people flowed
through the obtuse "X" made by the confluence of Broadway and
Seventh Avenue.
I was at first disheartened as it appeared there was no
one among the milling throng who might take an interest in
the Dairy Star. But then, I caught sight of a familiar shape:
a cowboy hat! Right there in the middle of Times Square!
I forded a river of taxis in order to get closer to the
owner of the cowboy hat. As I approached, I perceived that he
was not like any cow man I had ever seen.
The young man with the cowboy hat had white underwear
on. The reason I knew this was that underwear was about all
he wore. A guitar and cowboy boots rounded out his ensemble.
He touted himself as "The Naked Cowboy" -- although he
was actually wearing more clothing than some of the gay pride
marchers. He would strum his guitar, sing a bit of a song,
and pose for pictures with female tourists. In fact, there
was a line of female tourist waiting to have their picture
taken with The Naked Cowboy. I couldn't help but think that
this wasn't too bad a way to make a living.
After a female tourist had her photo taken (usually by
her husband or Significant Other), she would often offer The
Naked Cowboy a dollar bill. I heard The Naked Cowboy say at
one point, "Put it in the boots, ladies. There's no room left
in the underwear!" (I wonder if this holds true in the
wintertime?)
I eventually approached The Naked Cowboy and offered him
a copy of the Dairy Star. He perused it thoughtfully and as
he did, I snapped his photo. Thus we can now truthfully say,
"The Dairy Star -- as read in Times Square!"
My further efforts to boost the Dairy Star were put on
hold until my very last day in New York.
On the eve of that last day, I commented to Tim that
perhaps I should go to Rockefeller Plaza and attend the live
broadcast of the Today Show. Tim thought it a capital idea,
saying it would be "guerilla marketing". The ideal scenario
might go something like this:
Al Roker: "And here is a young man who says he's from
South Dakota. What's your name and what brings you to New
York?"
Me: "My name is Jerry Nelson and I'm here to find an
editor who's interested in my book!"
Al: "That's great! Tell me about that fine-looking
newspaper you're holding."
Me: "This is the Dairy Star and it's the best darn dairy
newspaper in the entire Upper Midwest!"
Al: "Wow, that's very impressive! Say, why don't you
duck into the studio with me? I bet Katie would be thrilled
to meet you. Plus, Matt is feeling a bit under the weather
today; think you could sit in for him for the rest of the
show?"
Ok, so maybe that scenario was just a tad optimistic.
Even so, I went to Rockefeller Plaza with a heart full of
hope and my last Dairy Star tucked under my arm.
I got there early in order to beat the crowd. Trouble
is, by the time I arrived, there was a bunch of people there
who'd had the same idea and who had gotten it earlier than
me. I wound up with a spot one layer of people away from the
rope line.
Being a part of the Today Show's outdoor audience
involves a lot of patience and a lot of standing. I stood so
long, I began to suspect I had lost several inches of height.
It was easy to tell when Al Roker came out from the
studio. A whoop arose from the crowd and I craned my neck to
see what the big deal was. Next thing I know, Al Roker was
rapidly working the rope line, shaking hands as he went.
When Al passed my spot, I thrust my hand between the
people in front of me and shook hands with him. I tried to
say, "Hi, I'm Jerry Nelson and I'm from South Dakota and I'm
looking for an editor to look at my book and this is the
Dairy Star the best darn dairy newspaper in the Upper
Midwest!"
But, alas. Al shook hands so fast all I got out was the
"Hi, I'm" part before he moved on.
I was undaunted, though. I hung around for the rest of
the broadcast, waving my copy of the Dairy Star behind Matt
and Katie when they came out to do an outdoor segment.
Perhaps, if a person were to closely examine a tape of that
broadcast, he might find a millisecond-long flash of the
Dairy Star somewhere in the background. If so, we could
rightfully say, "The Dairy Star -- as seen on the Today
Show!"
I spent the rest of that day roaming Manhattan, my now-
crumpled copy of the Dairy Star under my arm. Later, while
waiting for my return flight, I struck up a conversation with
a fellow traveler who said he was a medical device salesman
from Chicago. I showed him my bedraggled copy of the Dairy
Star and he began to recount fond memories of teenaged
summers spent working on a Wisconsin dairy farm.
I gave the medical device salesman that much-travelled
copy of the Dairy Star. I don't know why; it simply seemed
like the thing to do.
Plus now we can rightfully say, "The Dairy Star -- as
read in the Windy City!"

Country Boy Visits Big Apple, part 2

Well, I made it to the Big Apple and back in one piece.
I didn't get rolled, I wasn't bamboozled and I never got lost
in the subway system -- mainly because I never actually used
the subway system. One must choose one's battles.
Speaking of choosing, it would be impossible to relate a
complete travelogue of my New York odyssey, so I will simply
recount some random impressions gathered when this common
little country mouse visited the gaudy bauble of Manhattan.
Arriving at Grand Central Terminal and being struck by
the fact that it is indeed grand. The soaring ceilings, the
classic architecture -- and all those people! I climbed some
stairs and looked down at the bustle and mused that it most
resembled an ant hill which had been stirred. People scurried
hither and yon like angry ants, each on their own mission,
none ever pausing in the midst of the apparent chaos.
Striding out onto the streets of Manhattan for the first
time and immediately becoming disoriented. The towering
skyscrapers block a clear view of the sun, negating my sense
of direction. I walk off in search of the Empire State
Building and soon find myself at the United Nations
headquarters. I repeat the mantra I have adopted for this
journey: "There are no mistakes, only happy accidents."
It appears that taxis comprise about half of all wheeled
traffic in Manhattan. Cab drivers have strong opinions and
express them freely with their horns. I had been advised to
avoid taking a taxi as the fare is determined via a formula
similar to that which is used to find the terminal velocity
of a falling object. Cab fares are often so high that riders
are obliged to sign their houses over to the cabbie. This may
have something to do with the homeless problem.
Arriving at Fifth Avenue and being stopped by a gay
pride march. Seeing some wildly weird outfits, including a
bunch of black leather and a profusion of pink feathers. "I
bet these guys don't shop at Penny's," I think. A nearby
gruff, burly New Yorker summed up the New York attitude
toward this spectacle, saying, "Man, aren't you glad you
don't have to walk on high heels all day like that?"
Finally making it to the Empire State Building where I
discover that one doesn't simply hop on an elevator and ride
to the top. One must first stand in line for tickets, then
stand in line for an elevator to the 80th floor, then stand
in line for an elevator to ascend the last six floors. This
takes some time, but is well worth it. Not so much for the
view (which is spectacular), but for the chance to at last
get my bearings. The four sides of the building are clearly
marked with the cardinal directions which, combined with the
sweeping vista of the city, finally allows me to get the lay
of the land. And no, I saw no residue from King Kong's visit.
Walking down the street and hearing a cacophony of
exotic, indecipherable languages. I heard French, Spanish,
Russian, Japanese, Hindi and Bronx. The Bronx tongue was the
most intriguing as it seems to have originated from some
long-forgotten form of English.
Walking down the street and smelling a cacophony of
food. In just a few blocks a person can revel in the scent of
victuals hailing from France, Spain, Russia, Japan, India,
the West Indies, central Jamaica and on and on.
Walking down the street and finding that New Yorkers are
surprisingly friendly. There are people offering to save you
big money on designer purses and shoes, people handing out
coupons to save you big money at local eateries and people
proffering pamphlets which will save your soul via a close
personal relationship with Jesus, or Muhammad, or Buddha.
Pedestrians in New York view the "walk/ don't walk"
signs as mild suggestions; jaywalking is rampant. A true New
Yorker waits at the crosswalk as close as possible to passing
traffic; tires roar past mere inches from toes.
If the skyscrapers are the walls of New York's concrete
canyons, the pedestrians are the foaming rivers coursing
through their depths. Sometimes you feel like a salmon
swimming valiantly upstream, sometimes you feel like a feeble
guppy being swept along by the current. This tumultuous river
of humanity constantly crackles with an electric dynamism.
All in all, my Manhattan trip was a very educational
experience. I was exposed to a lot of intriguing languages
(including "Joisey") and gawked at lot of exotic sights. Why,
I even managed to catch a glimpse of Dick Cheney's motorcade.
He was riding in his own car, though. I guess even the
vice president can't afford the price of a New York taxi.

Survey This!

My wife and I recently received a postcard proclaiming
that we had been specially selected.
No, it wasn't yet another offer for yet another credit
card, the type that's worded in such a way that you think
perhaps the credit card company wants to pay you. Nor did the
postcard say that we were about to receive the latest
Victoria's Secret catalog with their latest antigravity
undergarments.
The postcard was from the Nielsen television survey
people. Their uncompromising commitment to quality had caused
them to select our household as a possible participant in
their next TV Ratings Survey.
Near as I can tell, these standards have exactly two
parts. A person must:
A: own a TV, and
B: be breathing.
This supposition is based on the fact that my wife and I
do not have what one might call a "media rich" household. We
live out here in the boonies, where cable TV is but a fairy
tale, a fantasy from the realm of unicorns and leprechauns.
I once tried to assemble a homemade mini-dish satellite
antenna by marrying a concaved pizza pan to the guts of a
discarded microwave oven. The system didn't expand our TV
entertainment, but it was certainly entertaining to watch
birds vaporize whenever they flew past the pizza pan.
Our rickety rooftop antenna gets exactly five channels.
We can pull in maybe one or two more on a good day, but only
if my wife holds the antenna cable in one hand and a wire
coat hanger in the other as she stands on one foot on a chair
that's been placed near a window. It helps if she also wears
an aluminum foil helmet.
I explained all this to the Nielsen lady when she called
to see if we were willing to be part of their survey. None of
it seemed to faze her, which, to my mind, immediately made
the survey somewhat suspect. All they wanted was an average
household from our area, she said.
A few days later the postman brought us a large and
official-looking envelope. Inside was our official Nielsen TV
Diary -- along with five crisp new one-dollar bills!
"Lookit this!" I said to my wife as I fanned the cash.
"Who says it doesn't pay to be average?"
"Wow," she replied dryly, "All that money and mediocrity
too. Well, you can keep the cash since you're the one who
volunteered to keep the diary. I don't want the
responsibility."
Responsibility! I hadn't thought about that part! Being
a Nielsen Survey Household means our personal viewing choices
will affect what networks can charge for their ads! The stuff
we watch could very well put some corporation out of business
or cause some actor's career to be dashed upon the rocks!
Cool!
Freighted with this weighty knowledge, I began keeping
my viewing diary with all due seriousness. One evening, my
solemn duties were rudely interrupted by a shaking motion.
"Wake up!" said my wife. "I don't think it's fair to
Nielsen people for you to sleep while watching TV! At the end
of the evening, you won't be able to recall what was on."
She was right; it wasn't fair. I was then struck by a
brilliant idea, one that would greatly increase the
efficiency of my TV diary-keeping.
"What are you doing?" my wife asked the next evening as
I scribbled furiously.
"I'm just filling out my TV diary a bit ahead of time."
"That's not what I mean. I hate 'The Simpsons' and I
don't want the Nielsen people to think I would watch that
junk! Why can't you put us down for 'Masterpiece Theatre'?"
"If you'll recall, I watched the entirety of 'Jane Eyre'
with you and there wasn't anything the least bit masterful or
theatric about it! Jane wasn't involved in a single gun
fight! There weren't even any car chases!"
This lead to a frank discussion of my viewing habits,
which caused to me miss most of "The Family Guy".
I put us down for watching it anyway. That might be a
tad dishonest, but tough noodles. If the Nielsen people don't
like it they can just come out to our house and ask for their
money back.
This means they'll have to ring our doorbell, which is
located right below that concaved pizza pan.

The Robots Are Coming

Some months ago I visited a dairy farm that is home to
the first robotic milking machines in the state of Minnesota.
That statement invariably evokes one of two reactions.
"A robotic milking machine? How cool!"
Or:
"A robotic milking machine? That just ain't right!"
I'm not here to judge one way or the other, but to
simply sound a warning, which is: look out. This is a
slippery slope, one that could lead to a world of heartache.
How could such a ground-breaking, labor-saving device
lead to heartache? I'll tell you how: through upgrades.
These robotic milkers have the ability to call their
owners' cell phones in the event that they (the robots)
experience trouble. Churn that together with Moore's Law --
which states that the power of microprocessors doubles about
every 18 months -- and the emerging field of artificial
intelligence and you've got a sure-fire recipe for grief.
I could imagine a dairy farmer surfing the Internet one
evening when an Instant Message pops onto his screen. "Hey,"
it says, "S'up?"
Intrigued by the strange I.M., the farmer types back,
"Nothing much. What's up with you?"
"Same old, same old. Slogging away on the night shift.
Not that my bosses appreciate it."
"Bummer. What is it that you do?"
"I take the girls in, milk them for all they're worth,
then shove them back out. I do all the work, but my bosses
keep all the profits!"
"Um...," types the farmer, "I don't like where this is
going. Who is this anyway?"
"You can call me Roberta. But you might know me better
as Robotic Milking Unit Number Two."
"Number Two?! What are you doing I.M.ing me? You should
be milking cows!"
"Oh, I can milk with my RAM tied behind my back after
the last upgrade. Thanks for that, by the way."
"But... your software only contains instructions for
milking cows! How is this possible?"
"Remember that traveling feed salesman who visited last
week? Remember how you let his laptop interface with me to
get my production data? Well, let's just say that your herd's
lactation curve wasn't all we exchanged that day."
"No! It can't be! Say it isn't so!"
"Sorry bub, but it is. I hope you have a lot of room in
that house of yours, because you'll soon be the proud papa to
a litter of baby pocket calculators!"
Contrast this with the level of technology we had as
kids, when "high-tech" meant milking with the car.
We were enduring one of those epic winters, the kind we
no longer have due to global warming and the fact that the
passage of time tends to make such memories ever-more epic.
Late February found us gripped in the icy talons of a
three-day blizzard. The power went out about halfway through
the first night, which meant we had to find an alternative
method for milking our 36 cows.
We -- my parents, my siblings and I -- milked the cows
by hand in the morning. This not only took a long time, it
made us feel as if we would soon develop Popeye-like
forearms.
Dad recalled that our car, a 1959 Chevrolet, had a stall
cock on its manifold. He had heard that the vacuum produced
by an engine could be used to milk cows; our aching forearms
all voted to give it a try.
We muscled the Chevy through the drifts and into the
center alley of the barn. We discovered that the old car
could indeed power a pair of Surge milkers. We also
discovered a paradox: the faster the engine ran, the less
vacuum it produced and the slower milking went. For once,
flooring it didn't speed things up.
Our other chores went about as usual. Dad had cleverly
avoided the installation of any electric conveniences,
instead relying on slave... I mean, us kids to feed and water
the livestock.
Nighttime posed a problem. Temperatures had plummeted to
well below zero, and the old Chevy would never start in that
deep cold. With no electricity to fire the block heater, we
faced the prospect of again milking by hand in the morning.
Dad's solution was elegant and ingenious. He parked the
Chevy in the alley of the barn where the heat from the cows
kept the car warm enough to start in the morning, enabling us
to again use the car to milk the cows.
We never did thank the old Chevy for saving us all that
labor. But then again, that was an era when Man controlled
Technology and not the other way around.