“What do you do?”

The question was posed to Elie Wiesel.  He was 15, and he was at Auschwitz.  It had been posed by Dr. Mengele himself.  Elie, who had already lied to an SS guard about his age, lied once more.

“A farmer.”

It is stated that anywhere from 75% to 90% of those that arrived at Auschwitz were killed on arrival, that is to say within 30 to 35 minutes.  Just minutes before his family had come to a sign which read, “Men Left, Women Right.”  They followed it.  It was the last time he saw his mother and youngest sister.

He and his father would have died as well, but a worker instructed them to lie about their age.    Elie lived to be 87 and died the 2nd of July this year.  In his time, he authored nearly 60 books and won a Nobel Peace Prize.  Perhaps his most famous work is “Night,” a memoir of his time in the Auschwitz and Buchenwald concentration camps.

A couple of days after his death, I discovered a copy of that book in my office.  It had been a gift several years ago from one of my sisters.  I peeled off the label that proudly heralded it’s selection into Oprah’s Book Club, and I set in on the thin, 115 pages, passing the time before fireworks that evening.

It is amazing how quick a read an eternity can be.

In the book are passages that will never leave you.  If you chose to hear them, then you must put down the affluent-laced ideas that everything happens for a reason and that it is all going to work out in the end.  You’ll get a sense of the urgency that seemed to guide the active engagement Wiesel pursued life with.  If we give it time, I suppose it will mostly pass.

Elie Wiesel was a farmer.  From a barren field, devoid of life, he harvested something not to be found in our abundance.  From it he took seeds, and he planted them on paper. Harvesting what he grew is up to us.

It was a 70s’ themed bar and offered the beer that had been trendy then but no longer.  Still, the place was not without its popularity.  At the bar sat a well-fit man sporting what appeared to be cowboy boots but of a delicate, soft leather.  Designer jeans hung from his slim waist, and tucked into them was a button down shirt that gave the appearance of being tailored.  His face was a smooth as a baby’s ass.

He was our age, and I fancied to think a few years back when he would have wore the coarser leather of an unscuffed workboot, tucked underneath the upturned cuff of a heavier denim, below an unwrinkled flannel, which gave way to a immaculately trimmed beard topped by black, horn-rimmed glasses, and an oversized wrist watch above his hand.  Either outfit fancied a little ruggedness, but there was nothing rugged about it.  Perhaps there never is about a trend.

With me at a table, was one who wore a beard trimmed just enough to keep from being confused with a biblical prophet.  It lay over a simple t-shirt above shorts as he drank his beer from a can.  He looked to me the same he always had.

“Did you guys catch the first one?”

“Caught the last couple of innings.  Got to see you behind the plate.”

He winced.  “There were two strikes that game I called balls.  That shit haunts you.”

“How’s that?”

“You never worry about the balls you call strikes,” as he took a drink.  “Earlier this year, I had a kid up at bat, and the pitcher was just painting the corners with what he was brining in there.  He threw one right up and in, the batter turned away from it, but it came back and hung over the inside corner.  ‘Stike,’ I called.

The batter turned and shot me this look.  Next pitch the pitcher goes away and loops one in right across the outside edge.  ‘Strike,’ I called again, and I got the same look from the batter.

The third pitch got away from the kid on the mound, hung way outside, and came into the catcher’s mitt a good foot off the plate.  ‘Strike three,’ I barked, and I rung him up.  He looked at me in total disgust but silently went to the dugout.  The next batter was settling in when I heard his coach bust out, ‘What the hell did you think was going to happen looking at that man like that?’

The balls you call strikes don’t matter.  It always the strikes you call balls that get you.”

A fellow umpire reminisced.  “Martensdale-St. Marys used to pay $67.50 to call a game.  You’d take that check over to that bar in town…what’s the name of that place?”

“Northside.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Northside.  You’d take your check over there, ask, ‘Could you cash this for me, Darlin,’ order a cheese burger and fries, have a few beers, and have to stop on the way home and put gas in your car.  Nobody is here for the money.”

Why trends pay better, I don’t know, but sorting out strikes and balls never goes out of style.  The world is always in need of it.  And god damn, it’s a rugged place.

In Tokyo you would go to bed tired, sleep soundly for a few hours, and be wide awake at 4.  It was light by 4:30.  You’d give up going back to bed, you’d shower, pull your boots on, and walk out to the shore of Tokyo bay on the man made island of Odaiba.

Generally you met fellow Iowa Farm Bureau members who couldn’t sleep either.  Rarely did you see any local running around aimlessly.  I thought it a sign of cultural advancement, until I noticed the large logo of a local Starbucks.  Pluses and minuses, I suppose.

Back at the hotel, breakfast was very American.  There was bacon and sausages, orange juice and coffee, and pasta and Caesar salad.  (I’m sure someone read about the latter combo in a book somewhere.)

After we would board the busses in front of the Grand Nikko Hotel and take the Rainbow Bridge into Tokyo.  In the bay beneath us was an old island.  It was the sixth of the six original man made islands that bore the name Odaiba in 1853.  They were batteries to keep out Commodore Mathew Perry, his Black Ships, and the Americans they represented.

Japan had been closed to the West for 200 years prior.  It would be closed no longer.  Today hotels and western shopping centers stand nearly on top of them.  So much for isolationism.

“What did you know about Tokyo prior to coming here?”

“I knew it was clean.  When people would  describe it, nearly all would say, ‘You don’t even see a cigarette butt lying on the ground.'”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Not until I realized how much the Japanese still smoke.”  I smiled.  She laughed.

“My boyfriend smokes, but I usually make him do it under the range hood of the oven.”

The attractiveness of a woman telling a man what to do is universal.

Her name was Coco.  Part of our group was enamored with her.  I had just met her as we sat down for dinner.  We were on the 42nd floor in an American-style restaurant called The Oregon Bar and Grill.  Beneath us was part of the heart of Tokyo.

Down there, among the neon lights, were the androgynous looking youth that had packed our train at each stop from our hotel.  They were headed out.  We were headed up.  Tokyo is big enough to head anywhere.

In 2015 Tokyo had a population of over 13.5 million people.  Chicago, in comparison, had a population just under 3.  If we were to include the Chicago metro, we could boost the number to 10.  If we were to do the same for Tokyo, we would jump it to 37 million, housing more than 25% of Japan’s entire population.

It’s the largest metropolitan area in the world.  On those morning busses, you couldn’t help but stare out the window and marvel at the 20-story apartment buildings which sprouted out of the ground feet apart and stretched to the horizon without end.

Tokyo’s population is like its humidity.  You swam in it.  It stuck to you.

It was a clean stickiness, with a Western feel, on a belly full of pasta, OJ, coffee, and croutons.  If only I had a cigarette.

Sitting in the US Embassy in Tokyo, we were getting briefed on the current political climate in Japan.  A door at the back of the room opened, and making her way to the front was US Ambassador Caroline Kennedy.  Her slight build and soft voice gave one the impression of a certain amount of shyness.  There was also something about her quietness that made an impression of her resolve.

Agriculture must look the same way at times.

Ambassador Kennedy looked out on a crowd of over 120 people, there as part of Iowa Farm Bureau and making up farm families from across the state.  For many this was just the first or second time they had stepped over the US border and dipped a toe in the rest of the world.  At the same time, as Iowa farmers, we’re on the world stage every day.

“I hope you understand the tremendous value your presence has here in Japan, and the value the Japanese place on personal relationships,” the Ambassador said.  She subsequently underscored this by repeatedly coming back to it.  She did this by stretching it out over the framework of Iowa’s involvement with the Prefecture (State) of Yamanashi.

A typhoon hit Yamanashi in 1959, devastating the area.  An Iowa Sargent, Richard Thomas, would frequently visit the area while he was stationed in Japan post World War II.  Having returned back to Iowa, he asked fellow Iowans to help come to the aid of  the region.

He received 36 hogs and 60,000 bushels of corn.  The hogs, 8 boars and 28 gilts would have 500 descendants in 3 years time.  By the end of 9, they would have 500,000.  In the aftermath of World War II, Thomas’ simple effort underscored the powerful but quiet diplomacy agriculture brings in making peace.  It’s power lies in the quiet resolve of bringing food to those who need it.  It’s brought by the relatively sedentary life of farming, as long as governments stay out of their way.

That morning Iowa Farm Bureau President Craig Hill spoke to the fact that 2/3 of the world’s middle class will be located on the Pacific Rim.  Potential for Iowa agriculture abounds, if those in our government will simply remove the barriers to trade.  The protectionist or isolationist push against doing such is as productive as trying to hold the waters of the Pacific back with a fork.  All the commotion created is an opportunity for someone else, just across the way, to slip in.

At dinner that evening, I wound up sitting across a large table from the Vice Governor of Yamanashi.  She’s a woman who seems to have held every position one could hold in agriculture, similar in build and manner to Ambassador Kennedy, and a similar sense of resolve.  The words that kept appearing in her remarks when she addressed the group were in thanking our state for its kindness over 50 years ago.

Kindness and agriculture can get by without a translator.  Just look at how well those Iowa hogs did.

 

It was the end of the third day of Iowa Farm Bureau’s 2013 Market Study Tour of Ukraine.  The days that had passed and those left to come on the trip would all be the same.  We got up early, had breakfast, boarded a bus, and saw things most of us had never seen in our lives and might not see again.  In the evening we would get to the hotel late, we’d eat dinner late, and then we’d find a place to hole up, have a cheap beer or two, and try to decompress.  In four or five hours the process would repeat itself.

That night we were staying in a hotel in a river port known as Mykoliav.  It was after midnight.  The tour participants had just finished checking in on their email.  Dirck Steimel was trying to get the Spokesman ready for publication back home.  Across from me sat Tim Kaldenberg from Albia.

“I’m beginning to think one of the most enjoyable parts of the trip are the people we are traveling with,” I said.

“You know, that’s the one thing about my experience with Farm Bureau.  Wherever you go, whatever you do, the people you meet are first class.”

Tim didn’t know it at the time, but he wrote my elevator speech on why people should get involved in whatever connects them to something bigger than their self.  I’ve used every time I’ve asked people to become involved or spoke to those getting involved in Farm Bureau.  I’ve used it for becoming involved in other organizations.  I’ve used it to entice people to step just outside their comfort zones.

When I came home, I found just talking about it wasn’t enough to sort through all the thoughts the trip produced.  I began to write to try to make sense of it, and I suppose the rest of my days will look the same in that regard.  I also continue to get out of my comfort zone.

In doing so I’ve continue to meet first class people, found new audiences for old stories, and am continually supplied with the people and experiences needed to build new ones.  I guess it is something about the way life works.  When life works in a way to become more connected and better understanding of those we share it with, it’s working pretty well.

In less than two weeks I’ll see some of my original travel companions as well as friends I’ve met since on a Farm Bureau trip to Japan.  It will be a much larger group and with an easier pace.  Amongst those familiar faces will be the old stories, and together we will find new faces and new stories to tell.

Someday I’ll have to get off this elevator.  God willing there are a few more floors to go, and all kinds of first class people to share the ride with.

“You know the other night she asked me wouldn’t it be fun if you came over?

I told her, ‘We’ll be going to bed soon.’

She said, ‘I know. Just for an hour or two.’

We were both in bed before 9 o’clock.  That’s how the two of us live it up.”

It was dark and we were headed home.  I watched the pavement rush under the headlights and said little.  I wanted to tell her how much the story meant to me, but I didn’t.  We hadn’t been dating long.  I was trying to keep my heart together.  It had been ten years.  In the end I changed the subject and deflected.

The week had began with the two of them bringing pizza out.  Her daughter was tall, kept her long hair in a ponytail, and sported a headband to keep watch for stragglers.  She made me think of how her mother must have looked when she was that age.

The girl spoke like lightning, with words coming hard and quick.  The subjects they described were a free for all.  She spoke of softball, school, her plans on life, her mother, and the dogs.  She freely gave her opinion on anything I asked and reigned over all of it as daylight rained through my picture window.

As she spoke I snuck glances at her mother, and between the two of them I got a glimpse of the way others must live.  For a moment, the place and time were right.  In this world that is something, and there are no guarantees.

I marveled at the way the girl so fearlessly divulged her hopes and dreams.  Her mother and my words came in starts and stops, as we cycled through what was broken, doubled down on that which was guarded, and found the right ones elusive.  Age does funny things I suppose.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?  When were you happiest?”

“The day I first held my daughter.”

I smiled.  Sometimes us adults talk about such fine things in the dark.

Where the days go? I don’t know.

I see my friends and family, and I think they look the same as they always have. Sometimes, though, through an old photograph I realize we do not. I get caught looking at it, and I wonder: Who is that man? Who is that boy?

Perhaps wonder is the proper work for a lifetime.

There are those who seem to have the world figured out at the ripe old age of 20, or 30, or so on. Their rest of experience is spent reinforcing what they think they already know. What a waste of the world and those we share it with, accepting a world and people of illusion in their stead, and offer our lives to their shadow.

We think our relationships are a product of our feelings, rather than our feelings being a product of them. To change the relationship, we strive to change the feeling and push a little harder on the rope.

We think we know what our relationships are supposed to look like, if only the other person would play along. And that somehow that relationship isn’t as important to us as it is to the other: “us ourself in the summer heaven godlike.”

Maybe the biggest illusion is that we’ve figured out who that other is and who we are, never realizing what might be discovered of us both in our relationships. Halls and passageways and great gardens go untouched like gifts unoppened.

It’s not by chance that some of these gifts have the same name as our parents. Sometimes, what we do with it is embarrassing, and sometimes it’s a draw, but sometimes it leaves you in wonder, and a life’s proper work.

Who is that man? Who is that boy?

 

It is estimated that 2.5% of those involved in the labor force today are farmers.  150 years ago it was over half.  100 years ago it was 1/3.  50 years ago it was just under 1/10.

As one of those farmers, I don’t have any particularly feelings one way or another about the trend.  It is a subsequent trend, riding the coattails of this one, that concerns me.  Most people don’t know a farmer.

There’s no longer a connection with the family’s farm couple over the holidays.  Kids no longer venture to the farm for the summer.  Unless random chance places you beside one on an airplane, you can go your entire life and never once have a meaningful conversation with the people involved in producing your food.

There is a gap, then, a meaningful one, existing in between the farmer and the consumer.  While local farmer markets can put you in touch with those that raise the tomatoes you buy there, I’m a little uncertain the role that truly plays in bridging this gap.  It certainly provides an emotional connection to those raising the produce, but I wouldn’t know enough to comment on the connection it provides to everyone else in our varied agricultural community.

 

Yesterday, just before 6 in the morning, I began working with a film crew hired by the Iowa Beef Industry Council that was to document the day in a life of three families involved in raising cattle from across the state.  We wrapped things up just before 8 last night.  We spent 14 hours for a few minutes of video, a chance to tell a little of the story of the 20,000 Iowa farms with beef cows, and to partly bridge the gap I wrote about above.

There will never be a postcard made of our family farmstead.  No equipment manufacturer is in danger of shooting a commercial here.  It’s simply a farm.  I have no idea what the view was like on the other end of the camera, but it didn’t bother me any.  Like everyone else which makes up these farms, we’re simply human.

Hopefully, it will show one of those human faces.  Hopefully it will remind someone that agriculture today is not some cold, mechanical thing producing the food you purchase at the grocery store.  Hopefully in the unknown someone somewhere finds the familiar.  Hopefully someday you get that airplane seat by a farmer.

 

 

 

“What’s your name?”  I asked in a rather aggressive, booming voice.

She lowered her eyes to her knobby knees and her feet as she leant against the side of a pickup.  For my part, I could see I would have to try a different tactic.  For hers, I supposed she hoped I would go away.  I feel the same sometimes.

Eventually she looked in my general direction.  I tried again.  “What’s your name?”  I asked, softer this time.

“Lola.”

“How old are you, Lola?”

“11”

We were getting ready to put three kayaks and a canoe in Middle River.  Had it not been for Lola, we would have been a grizzled group of beer drinkers with our shirts off talking like truckers.  The presence of the 11 year old, then, added some maturity.

It was Saturday.  We would float a few miles of river and look for a few deep holes to set poles on.  We’d return on Sunday to see if we caught anything.

Generally the crew would select a site on the outside of a river bend, driving the pole into the bank that was stratified with the deposits left by time and exposed to us because of what time was taking.  On the pole was several feet of line, a sinker, and a hook that would go through the tail of a live bluegill.  Generally I would try not to drown, nor let my beer get warm.

Half way down we stopped at a sandbar.

“Banks, have you told Lola about the Indians yet?”

“Indians?”  She asked.

“I don’t know if we should tell her about that yet.”

“What Indians?”

“A little farther down there’s a large creek that comes into Middle River, called Clanton.  At the junction used to be a favorite Indian campsite.  They say if you look along the bank you’ll sometimes find arrowheads or pottery shards.”

“Will we go there?”

“Yea, it’s just a little farther.”

Had it been a week earlier, I would have thought of another girl, about her age, to take there.  She was gone, though.  Complicated thing, this time of ours.

 

We hopped back in, continuing to set poles and making our way to the junction.  The music of Sturgill Simpson came from her father’s speaker.  Over it I could hear him softly give her instruction as she sat in the front of the canoe, sharing with her the things time had given to him.

“Do you see that ripple up there?  Place the oar on this side.  Good.  See how it did that?”

We would scour the banks where Clanton and Middle came together.  We found nothing but time.  In time, though, is room for everything.  May it be kind to Lola.  May she learn to float it regardless.  May the rest of us figure it out too.

“Glorious kind, always on time, pearls on a string.”

Seated at the bar in Django, I was drinking a local brew and waiting on a woman who was running late.  I had no complaints.  There’s hardly a better reason to be seated at a bar alone.  Though it was a first date, I thought I could get use to the idea of having someone to wait on.

At the far end of the oval bar, oysters were getting prepped for the evening.  Open shelving split its length, displaying the bottles in duplicate that waited to be served.  Back to back they sat, each proudly boasting its label to those seated across from them.  Two bartenders joined the bottles, back to back.  Similar in stature, they tended to move down the bar in unison as they checked on their patrons.

Each had only one.  He and I sat directly across from each other, facing in.  A ballgame caught my attention from a small television.  I would watch it as the bartenders worked, and the corner of my eye would be begin to be drawn into the illusion of a mirror.  Instead of duplicates, there was only a reflection.

My eyes would leave the television.  My thoughts would run where they wanted to go.  I would stare blankly at those on the far side of the bar, confusing what was ahead of me with what was behind, caught between the future and the past.  Expecting a look of familiarity, they would make their way to the face of the man across from me.  Instead they found a gray face that wasn’t mine.  They’d revolt back to the television, and after a few minutes the process would repeat again.

Perhaps we spend most our lives wondering if we are looking forward or back, between the past behind us and our hope of how the future might be.  Perhaps we can’t help turning what exists into a reflection.

Suddenly, she walked in, tall and with her curly, blonde hair straightened.  Beautiful.  We exchanged a greeting, grabbed a table, and began the work of figuring out if the two of us would have anything to talk about.

We were nervous and hesitant.  The couple beside us sat uncomfortably close.  I let loose with what a dumb ass I had been at the bar, and she let loose a kind and genuine smile.  We managed to go on from there.

Her eyes gleamed, and beneath the round bottom of her nose, her lips moved in the way that began to let me in.  When they weren’t moving, the same smiled returned, and I managed to keep them doing one or the other for the length of the evening.  It was long enough to wonder how I might get to see her again.

Django means, “I awake.”  I did.  I had forgotten how good the present could be.  Maybe she had too.

“Tomorrow is on it’s way, and there’s always new songs to sing.”