At 92 years old, I still live and work on the farm that’s been in my family for over 70 years. Some people say time changes everything—and maybe it does—but when I step outside each morning and hear the same rustle of wind in the trees, or feel the soil beneath my boots, it’s like time folds in on itself. The world may have moved on in so many ways, but here, on this patch of land, so much remains familiar. Comforting. Constant.

This land is more than home—it’s who I am. I was born right here, raised here, and shaped by its seasons. My father handed me the reins, and in turn, I poured my life into it: plowing, planting, harvesting, feeding livestock, and raising a family under this same sky. Through droughts and bumper crops, joy and grief, the farm was always there—unchanged in its demands, but generous in its rewards.

The work has never been easy, but it has always been worth it. I remember the early mornings, the frost still clinging to the windows of my 1966 Chevrolet truck, the same one I still use today. That old Chevy has hauled thousands of pounds of grain to the Cargill grain elevator, braved snowstorms, and rattled over dirt roads for decades. It’s more than just a vehicle—it’s a witness to my life, sturdy and faithful, a partner in the quiet, gritty pride of farm work.

Then there’s Gunner, my loyal dog, who shadows me across the fields like a second heartbeat. In a world that moves fast, Gunner and that old truck are my reminders that loyalty doesn’t fade and that some things—good things—are built to last.

As a boy, I didn’t dream of city lights or distant adventures. I dreamed of tilled earth, early harvests, and hay in the barn loft. My role was clear from the start: take care of the land, respect its rhythms, and build a life rooted in something bigger than myself. Every row I planted, every fence mended, every storm weathered, was part of something enduring.

But life has its own turns.

When I was drafted during the Korean War, I left behind everything I knew—the comfort of the land, the routine of chores, and the faces of the people I loved. I went, not because I wanted to leave, but because duty called. I carried with me not just the tools of a soldier, but the quiet strength and patience the farm had taught me. After two long years, I came home. And without missing a beat, I returned to the fields, married a farmer’s daughter, and started a family of our own.

This farm became our life together—a place where we built something real, something lasting. We raised two daughters, teaching them the same values that had shaped me: resilience, humility, and respect for the land. My wife, who knew the farm life as well as I did, stood by me through every season. Her hands were as calloused as mine. Her heart, just as tied to this soil.

We buried her here a few years ago—along with our youngest daughter, who left this world far too soon. Their absence is a silence that echoes through the fields. And yet, I feel them here every day: in the sunlight on the corn, in the wind that moves through the trees, in the warm memory of laughter around the kitchen table.

People ask me why I still do it—why I still wake up at dawn, check the fences, clean the equipment, walk the rows.

The truth is, I don’t know how not to.

The farm is more than a place—it’s my legacy, my memory, my lifeblood. It's where I watched my children take their first steps and where I will one day take my last. Every broken tool, every repaired gate, every sunrise over the fields is part of a bigger story—a story of commitment, love, and unshakable roots.

I’ve lived long enough to see tractors guided by GPS, weather forecasts on smartphones, and neighbors come and go. I’ve seen small farms swallowed up or paved over, and yet, I’ve held onto this one—not because I feared change, but because I believed in continuity. In stewardship. In the idea that a man can spend his life caring for something and, in return, be cared for by it.

This land has kept me going through the darkest nights and the brightest mornings. It’s taught me that life isn’t measured in years, but in seasons—each one with its own purpose, pain, and beauty.

And when my final season comes, I know where I’ll be. Right here. On the farm where I was born. The farm I’ve loved, worked, and called home for nearly a century.

Because no matter how much the world changes, this land still knows my name. And I’ll keep walking it—slowly now, but steadily—until it’s time to lay down my tools for good.

And when I do, I hope someone else—maybe a grandchild, maybe a neighbor—will walk these fields and feel what I’ve felt: the quiet power of a life well-lived, grounded in the soil, and nourished by love.