08/16/2025
"The world doesn’t run without farmers — and one day, you’ll realize how much you needed us."
My name’s Tom. I’m 67, a third-generation farmer from Iowa.
Forty-eight years I’ve been planting, plowing, and praying for rain at the right time. I’ve pulled calves in the middle of snowstorms, hauled hay in hundred-degree heat, and fixed busted tractors at midnight so the work didn’t fall behind.
Not once in my life has anyone asked me where I went to college. Mostly, they just want to know if the corn will be ready for harvest or if I’ve got eggs for sale at the market.
Last spring, my granddaughter Sophie asked me to speak at her school’s career day. You know the lineup — doctors, lawyers, an accountant in a crisp suit talking about “financial literacy.” I was the only one in dusty boots with calloused hands and sunburn on my neck.
When it was my turn, I told the kids, “I’ve never sat in a lecture hall. But I’ve grown the food that’s been on your dinner table since you were born. And when a blizzard hit in ’79 and trucks couldn’t make it through, my neighbors ate because I still had the means to grind flour and share milk from my cows.”
The room got quiet. Then the questions came.
“How early do you wake up?”
“Do cows really have personalities?”
“Have you ever been kicked by a horse?” (Yes. Twice. And no, it’s not fun.)
When the bell rang, one boy hung back. Small kid, shaggy hair, shirt with holes in it. He mumbled, “My dad’s a mechanic, but people make fun of him ‘cause he never finished school. He says I should be a teacher, not… y’know… ‘fixing stuff.’”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Kid, when your car won’t start in the middle of nowhere, it’s not a college professor who saves you. It’s someone like your dad.”
Here’s the thing nobody told me when I was young — this country doesn’t run without farmers. You can have all the CEOs you want, but if nobody plants the seed, waters the soil, and harvests the crop, your grocery store shelves go bare.
We’ve made it sound like farming, ranching, or working the land is what you do if you can’t “make it” somewhere else. But the truth is, people like me choose this life because we love it — the sweat, the seasons, the satisfaction of knowing your work feeds not just your family, but strangers you’ll never meet.
Four years after high school, some kids walk away with diplomas. Others walk away with no debt, a truck full of tools, a skill passed down for generations, and the grit to survive when the power’s out and the roads are closed.
And guess what? When the store runs out of bread, it’s not a diploma that puts food on your table.
A few weeks ago, that same boy’s mom stopped me at the feed store. She said, “You probably don’t remember, but you told my son that jobs like his dad’s matter. He’s spending the summer working with him in the garage. First time I’ve seen him excited about anything in years.”
That’s what people forget — for some kids, just hearing that their path is valuable changes everything. It’s not “just” milking cows, fixing tractors, or stacking hay. It’s about pride. Purpose. The kind that lasts long after the sun sets on your working years.
So next time you meet a teenager, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?” Ask, “What’s your plan?” And if they say, “I’m going to work the land,” or “I’m learning to farm with my uncle,” smile big and say, “That’s fantastic. We’re going to need you.”
Because we will. More than ever. And when the shelves are empty and the trucks can’t get through, you’ll be glad they showed up
