From a friend in Colorado - Westcliffe -

I was filming a short YouTube video last summer, capturing one aspect of the small goat dairy farm I live and work on, a farm owned by Bev’s son, Matt, and his hard-assed wife, Rachael.

At one point in the filming Matt remarked, “this farm is where bad ideas go to die.” I laughed at his description then, I’m laughing now, and visitors to the farm laugh every time I repeat those words.

Where bad ideas go to die . . . a bit ominous but, in truth, it wasn’t meant to be an ominous statement. It was simply a statement of fact.

Allow me to explain what my son-in-law meant by those words.

The reality of a small farmer . . .

This farm, Lost Peacock Creamery, has been in the business of producing and selling goat cheese for ten years, the first seven of which were financial losses. In fact, Matt and Rachael both needed to continue to work other jobs, in addition to full-time farming, in order to pay their bills.

I mention that to underscore the fact that small farmers operate their farms on a very slim margin. They walk a tightrope daily, always “robbing Peter to pay Paul,” never quite sure if they will have enough money for the next problem approaching them. Because of that fact, small farm owners do not have the luxury of paying premium dollars for things like fixing a leak in the roof, or repairing a tractor, or replacing a water pump.

Instead, they must become inventive, finding alternative ways to solve daily problems, ways which do not involve paying through the proverbial nose for repairmen and parts.

Thus, the reference to “bad ideas going to die.”

On any given week, at Lost Peacock Creamery (fill in another farm name if you want), the following may, and most likely will, go wrong:

• Tractor breaks down which, I kid you not, happens about once per month.

• A section of fencing is mauled, and knocked down, by one of the horses.

• Water pipe leading to the horse paddock freezes and, yes, bursts upon thaw.

• A part on the milking machine ceases to work.

• The window on the pickup truck won’t roll back up; the tires need to be replaced on the pickup truck; the pickup truck needs a new heater; the pickup truck develops a leak in the radiator.

• Three goats somehow cut themselves while in the pasture, requiring antibiotic and secure wraps.

• Horses need shoeing.

• Falling branch punches a hole in the roof of the adolescent goat barn.

• Falling tree knocks down a section of fencing.

And I’m just getting warmed up. If I thought you would read them all, I would paint a much more realistic look at the problems facing Matt and Rachael every damned week.

Where bad ideas go to die . . .

Which leads us to the point of this diatribe.

If something goes wrong on a farm, something which must be fixed, and if you don’t have the cash to pay for a traditional solution, you are going to attempt some rather non-traditional solutions for your problems.

Some actually work.

Most, which is the point of this essay, do not, but a farmer has no idea whether the “solution” will actually work, until it is attempted.

Where bad ideas go to die . . .

Which leads one to the obvious question: why in the holy hell would anyone attempt the farming life? In a country (the U.S.) where WalMart and Costco are revered, where low prices by the large chain retailers severely undercut any pricing by small, independent farmers, where the average consumer is holding on by a thread and where every single penny is needed simply to pay for shelter and food, where, and I’m not exaggerating, the entire food system is stacked against the small farm owner, why do it? Why put yourself through the kind of sleepless nights Matt and Rachael know all too well?

To answer that question, I share a story with you.

My grandparents, Mom’s side of the family, at one time owned several hundred acres of rich, Iowa farmland, and upon that rich soil they grew corn. The harvests were a source of celebration, life was good, and then 1929 happened.

When I was seven, my parents took a road trip back to Iowa. By that time, after losing most everything during the Great Depression, my grandparents’ farm consisted of five acres, upon which Grandma and Grandpa grew enough corn to barely stay ahead of the creditors.

One morning during that visit, I woke up, had a hurry-up breakfast, and raced out into the cornfield to find Grandpa kneeling in the soil, cupping soil in his hands, letting it fall back to the ground.

I asked him what he was doing.

“Billy Boy, this here soil is life. Without this soil, your grandmother and me, we wouldn’t have a damned thing. This farm has been in our family for three generations, since early settlers arrived right after the Civil War, so this soil is part of our family history, our heritage, it flows through our veins. I come out every morning and thank it for our livelihood, for the bounty it has given us over the years.”

I looked at the soil. Reached down, picked up a handful of the rich, dark matter, let it fall to the ground, as my grandfather had done.

“Should I become a farmer, Grandpa?”

“I can’t answer that question for you, Billy Boy. There’s more than enough time for you to ponder that question about your future. I will say this, though. If you decide to be a farmer, your friends and family will most likely think you’ve lost your mind, and they may well be right, but you’ll go to bed every night with a smile in your heart, knowing you are part of something much bigger than you.”

I suspect Matt and Rachael understand my grandpa’s words.

Why else would they spend their adult lives at a place where bad ideas go to die?

Bill Lost Peacock Creamery