08/15/2025
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"The world doesnât run without farmers â and one day, youâll realize how much you needed us."
My nameâs Tom. Iâm 67, a third-generation farmer from Iowa.
Forty-eight years Iâve been planting, plowing, and praying for rain at the right time. Iâve pulled calves in the middle of snowstorms, hauled hay in hundred-degree heat, and fixed busted tractors at midnight so the work didnât 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 Iâve got eggs for sale at the market.
Last spring, my granddaughter Sophie asked me to speak at her schoolâs career day. You know the lineup â doctors, lawyers, an accountant in a crisp suit talking about âfinancial literacy.â 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, âIâve never sat in a lecture hall. But Iâve grown the food thatâs been on your dinner table since you were born. And when a blizzard hit in â79 and trucks couldnât make it through, my neighbors ate because I still had the means to grind flour and share milk from my cows.â
The room got quiet. Then the questions came.
âHow early do you wake up?â
âDo cows really have personalities?â
âHave you ever been kicked by a horse?â (Yes. Twice. And no, itâs not fun.)
When the bell rang, one boy hung back. Small kid, shaggy hair, shirt with holes in it. He mumbled, âMy dadâs a mechanic, but people make fun of him âcause he never finished school. He says I should be a teacher, not⌠yâknow⌠âfixing stuff.ââ
I looked him straight in the eye. âKid, when your car wonât start in the middle of nowhere, itâs not a college professor who saves you. Itâs someone like your dad.â
Hereâs the thing nobody told me when I was young â this country doesnât 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.
Weâve made it sound like farming, ranching, or working the land is what you do if you canât âmake itâ somewhere else. But the truth is, people like me choose this life because we love it â the sweat, the seasons, the satisfaction of knowing your work feeds not just your family, but strangers youâll 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 powerâs out and the roads are closed.
And guess what? When the store runs out of bread, itâs not a diploma that puts food on your table.
A few weeks ago, that same boyâs mom stopped me at the feed store. She said, âYou probably donât remember, but you told my son that jobs like his dadâs matter. Heâs spending the summer working with him in the garage. First time Iâve seen him excited about anything in years.â
Thatâs what people forget â for some kids, just hearing that their path is valuable changes everything. Itâs not âjustâ milking cows, fixing tractors, or stacking hay. Itâs about pride. Purpose. The kind that lasts long after the sun sets on your working years.
So next time you meet a teenager, donât just ask, âWhere are you going to college?â Ask, âWhatâs your plan?â And if they say, âIâm going to work the land,â or âIâm learning to farm with my uncle,â smile big and say, âThatâs fantastic. Weâre going to need you.â
Because we will. More than ever. And when the shelves are empty and the trucks canât get through, youâll be glad they showed up
