I’m from a fairly small burg stuck somewhere in the hills of north central Missouri. The land of corn, wheat and soybeans. We all know that the world depends on small town farmers to feed our bellies. But do you really understand what a rough life these brave men and women must face each day.

At six o’clock in the morning, you’ll find them at the Main Street Cafe eating breakfast and discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. At ten, they’ll be at the coffee shop over on Fourth Street discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. Around noon, there back at the cafe discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. About two in the afternoon, you’ll find them parked somewhere, drinking coffee from their thermos and discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. Until five o’clock in the evening when you’d find them back at the cafe again for dinner. Can we guess the topic of conversation?

     I am pretty sure that there must some, ‘secret society of farmer’s’, dress code that us ‘townies’ have no idea exist. But every day, rain or shine, winter or summer, their wardrobe never varied. Maybe it is simply the fact that Orscheln Farm and Home is just about the only place within a day’s drive where you can buy descent work clothes or for that matter just about anything else.

     Still the only way of telling one of them from the other is by the type of sweat stained baseball cap they wear. Some of the younger farmer’s wear logos of their favorite sports team or school mascot while the older ones show up with a ‘#1 Dad’ or maybe a ‘World’s Best Grandpa’. Generally though, it is just John Deere green. Occasionally one of them might get a wild hair and decide to wear a blue-checkered shirt instead of a red one.

I’ve grown up with the stories of how farmer’s wives always got up at 4AM to milk the cows, stoke the fire and all that crap so she could serve a home cooked breakfast to her family. But these guys are always at the cafe eating and none of them look fat enough to have eaten two breakfasts every day.

I do have to admit though; they are a friendly bunch and will always raise their index finger or tip their hat at me as I pull off into the ditch in order to get around their mile wide tractors parked in the middle of the road while they discuss in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer.

Now you know why the American farmer has to put in 18 hours a day. It’s because they spend 12 of them doing nothing but talking and eating.