Illinois Farm Families Blog

‘Is that an Easter Bunny on the corner?!’ I thought as I drove through the nearest small town on Friday. Add that to my list of “Things You’ll Only Find In A Small Town”. It’s been six years since I’ve moved from the Chicago suburbs to outside Peoria, IL, and I’m still in awe at the things that take place in small town USA versus those that don’t in busy cities. The big, white bunny was standing at the four way stop outside the new corner doctor’s office in town waving to the cars driving by. In all my years, I’ve never seen the Easter Bunny find his way to a street corner to hail the passing cars.

While I’m still not quite sure why the Easter Bunny was there, I noticed that the bench outside of the doctor’s office had a colorful rug underneath it. He could have just wanted to wish Friday commuters a happy Easter, or he was there for families to stop to take pictures with him, courtesy of the new doctor’s office. I’ll assume the later for the correct answer. I regretted that my own toddlers weren’t with me in the car; I definitely would have stopped to have them sit on his lap to take a yearly picture with my own camera, free of charge, and without having to wait in a line.

My first experience taking my first baby to see the Easter Bunny consisted of standing in line for two hours at a mall in the Chicago suburbs. While visiting my family before Easter, my mom insisted that I had to have my son sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap so that I could have a keepsake picture of his 1st Easter Bunny encounter. Not only was the wait incredibly long for the less than 30 seconds my son was on the Bunny’s lap , but it was not cheap to get a set of pictures to take home for his baby book and all the grandparents.

Suburban and city families share in this annual adventure to see the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus at local shopping malls. I remember years of putting on a holiday outfit to go to the mall with my mom and and grandma, only to stand in a long line of other impatient children to get a picture with Bunny or Santa. I now have years of these pictures to look back upon, and they make for some good laughs, especially those where myself or my brothers want nothing to do with either holiday friend.

This tradition now carries into my own family, but because I now live in outside of a small town, I’ve found that there are multiple opportunities to engage in holiday festivities that the local communities, schools, and businesses support. Not to mention, activities that are usually free of charge and without a two hour line. This week’s Weekly Post newspaper reported, “There is no shortage of Easter egg hunts schedule for this weekend,” followed by a listing of eight different activities in local towns. While we ran out of time to catch a photo-op with the Easter Bunny this year, next year, I’ll definitely keep my eye out for the Bunny on the corner. You can bet it’ll be free with no wait.

Kristen Strom
Brimfield, IL
Kristen is a city-gone-country girl after her marriage to her husband, Grant, who is a full-time farmer.  You can follow her stories and adventures on her blog at Little Dahinda.

So let's get started on some good conversations. But first, introductions are in order.

Hmmm. What can I tell you about myself?  I suppose the basics are always good, so here goes.

I grew up on a close-knit farm family in western Illinois. My parents, Roger and Julie Newell, raise corn, soybeans and alfalfa, manage a herd of cattle with my grandparents and my two uncles and also run a small swine operation. I spent a great majority of my days working outside with my Dad, taking care of our livestock. On a day like today, when there was no school, my brother, sister and I would leave our Christmas presents in piles on the floor and venture outside to help Dad feed and water the pigs and scoop near-frozen manure. Ahhh, memories.

When all of the water tanks had been thawed and the feed buckets have been hauled, Dad would usually reward us in giant snow piles (if there was any snow to be had). A giant snow pile held such great potential for three farm kids. It could be anything, a fort, a hill for sledding on or a peak for playing king of the mountain. Most often though, giant snow piles were hollowed out and used as backyard igloos. It was during days like these where I really wished that we had neighbor kids that could walk (within a reasonable distance, of course) over to our house.

Nowadays, I don't have any pigs to feed or manure to scoop, but I definitely consider myself a "farm mommy". My husband Matt and I make up part of the fifth generation of Murrays to farm in Champaign county. Our two year-old daughter, Teagan, makes generation number six (or so we can hope). We raise corn and soybeans and the occasional chicken flock when we feel so inclined. Matt and his two cousins, Jack and Christopher, also make a living in the farming "off-season" selling Pioneer brand seed products.

We are in our fourth year of marriage and farming together and are just beginning our journey as a young couple dedicated to agriculture. Life is pretty good.

I am so glad to meet you and I am eagerly looking forward to many more blog posts to come!  Here's to a happy and healthy new year!

 

Roganne Murray

Roganne is a farm wife, mother to a spunky two year-old and all-around farm girl. She and her husband Matt live in a white house on the Illinois prairie, and you can follow their adventures raising what they hope will be the sixth generation of Murrays to farm in Champaign county at White House on the Prairie.

Illinois farm mom Katie Pratt is in New York City today. She’s one of only nine finalists in a national search for farmers who will put a face to farming and share their stories. In her own words, she’s “shocked, surprised and excited about the journey that lies ahead.” Katie’s a great candidate for the job; in fact, sharing farm stories has been a family tradition for years.

 Katie now needs your vote. Through December 15, you can vote for Katie at the USFRA Food Dialogues website.

Katie is a full-time farm mom from Dixon, Illinois (about 100 miles west of downtown Chicago). You’ve seen her as enthusiastic Illinois Farm Families volunteer – blogging here, hosting sit-down conversations with Chicago moms and sharing her passion for farming with those in her own community.

 Katie and her husband, Andy, are seventh generation farmers. Together they raise two adorable farm kids and grow corn, soybeans and seed corn. Katie’s family still raises pigs, cattle, goats and horses only a few minutes away. The family farm has been open to visitors, including non-farm neighbors, urban Chicago moms and teachers, and farmers from around the globe, for more than 40 years. Watch a video from Katie.

Now, one of your favorite farm moms has the opportunity to share her farm story and food conversation nationally with the U.S. Farmers and Ranchers Alliance – the group of farmers and ranchers answering Americans’ questions about how your food is grown.

You can get your questions answered from farm moms like Katie. Become a Field Mom and tour Illinois farms throughout the next year. We’re accepting applications now.

Too much about small towns and family farms falls victim to inaccurate stereotypes. Yet the image of good-hearted, hard-working people generally holds true. (Even if they don’t wear straw hats.)
Our small-town community annually pulls off an amazing and huge Thanksgiving-type feast at our church. We call it the annual Turkey Supper, held the last Saturday in October. We serve turkey and the homemade trimmings to nearly 500 people. The population of our town is 600.
The effort requires 21 turkeys, 81 loaves of bread for dressing, 65 pounds of coleslaw, six roasters brim-full of mashed potatoes, 15 gallons of gravy, 40 bags of cranberries and 23 big cans of green beans. For dessert: 80 pies and cakes! You drool at the thought and certainly salivate at my church’s front door. 
I watched volunteers walk in the church and become mesmerized by the aroma. They shake the urge to eat and take to their stations in the kitchen. The fellowship hall. The Sunday School room. And the choir practice area. 
The effort requires more than 60 volunteers. That includes people to waitress the family-style meal, slice turkey, bake dressing, cut pies and dish food. Meal-time requires a crew in the kitchen and a crew in second room, which serves carry-outs through a front window. Shifts arrive to wash dishes (including 20-plus roasters!). That number doesn’t even include the people who bake pies at home and donate ingredients. The list is lengthy and exhausting. 
As is the work. Hours ahead of the meal, you see people in food-speckled clothes who could benefit from a bath. Or at least a sweat band. We pray a week or two ahead of the event – asking the Lord for strength and guidance in anticipation of the day.
Three generations of my family work the Turkey Supper. My grandma, mom and I all worked in the kitchen this year. Four aunts worked an aspect, too. Several cousins served as waitresses in the past. Our daughter, the fourth generation, helped a little bit last year when we chunked about 80 loaves of Wonder bread for the dressing.
Grandma has been the gravy lady for years. She makes this flavorful topper the way it’s supposed to be: from the turkey broth. She stirs for hours with her arm perched above tall, commercial-type stockpots. 
This year, I inherited Mom’s green bean duties. She instead co-chaired the kitchen operations and washed dishes for NINE HOURS. And like many of us, she didn’t get a bite of it until forking into her carryout meal at home afterwards. 
What a delicious primer to Thanksgiving – which by comparison may be less work!
Joanie Stiers
Williamsfield, IL

My grandfather and his siblings grew up on a farm in rural Iowa in the 20’s and 30’s. Throughout my childhood in the Chicago suburbs, holidays, birthday parties, and family gatherings were full of stories of the farm. My grandfather and his siblings would sit around the dinner table, card game, or birthday cake retelling stories of their farm days. As a Chicago suburban girl, I had only those stories and children’s picture books to understand what farm life was like. I imagined a farm to be a dirt road leading to a white house surrounded by corn, wheat, and livestock. I assumed every farmer had chickens, pigs, cows, hens, and sheep, just like Old MacDonald. 

My relatives’ stories laid the foundation for my assumptions as well. They made their own sausage (I too took part in this tradition in my great-uncle’s basement, and we have a home video to prove it), stomped their own grapes for homemade wine (which graced the dinner tables of holiday gatherings), frolicked in the cow’s pasture (and were chased up a tree by a bull), got in trouble while fishing on their neighbors’ land (and received a harsh punishment because of it), had a close encounter with an alien space ship in the middle of a cornfield (I’m serious!), knew where Al Capone’s men bought their eggs and alcohol on their trips from the big city (which they were told to keep mum about), and were the first English speaking members of their immigrant family from Italy. The colorful memories of my grandfather and his siblings were tales of the good-ole days, before they left their country life in search of jobs in Chicago. As they grew up, there weren’t opportunities on their small family farm, so they followed the paths forged by their older siblings to where they could find work.

As a little girl listening to their farm stories, I never would have thought that nearly 20 years later, I would fall in love with a farmer and live on a farm. What I knew of farming was only what I had heard as a child and what I saw on I-57 while attending the University of Illinois. During those drives to and from college, I marveled at the beautiful sunsets, the golden colors of the changing crops, the farmers out late at night harvesting or planting their fields, and the wide distance between farm houses. In the years since I met my husband, I’ve watched multiple sunsets from the porch of a white farm house, drove down countless dirt roads, taken tractor and combine rides late into the night, and learned about the crops they tend and the pigs they raise. Although my husband’s family doesn’t make their own sausage, stomp their own grapes for wine, or have close encounters with gangsters or aliens, I appreciate the stories of the good ole days on the farm whether they are from my family or my husband’s relatives. Even though I grew up in the suburbs, farming and country living is in my blood, and I like to think that I’ve returned to my roots, where there is always a good story waiting to be told.

Kristen Strom
Brimfield, IL
Kristen is a city-gone-country girl after her marriage to her husband, Grant, who is a full-time farmer.  You can follow her stories and adventures on her blog at Little Dahinda.

Food defines the seasons on our farm.  By spring, we’ve exhausted our winter stores of garden vegetables and plant seeds with visions of fresh salads and side dishes in our heads. Throughout the summer and early fall we eat from the garden, literally.  One morning my kids and I took our spoons out to the melon patch, picked a sweet smelling cantaloupe, sat down and ate right there in the yard.  That was the best breakfast. 

Of course, food in the fall means meals in the field.  Growing up, we lunched in the field.  That was the time of day my dad agreed to stop the combine, tractors and trucks.  We’d toss a blanket on the field’s edge or in the back of the pick-up and lay out our fare.  Most often lunch was a hearty ham sandwich ladened with garden fresh lettuce and tomatoes, an apple plucked from the backyard tree and cut vegetables from the garden.  My mom always had a sweet treat – brownies, pumpkin squares, apple squares, sugar cookies . . . my mouth is watering. 

These days my husband, his dad and brother stop for supper.  My mother-in-law, sister-in-law and I divide the week, each taking two nights. (I am thankful that on this farm we take Sunday to heart and rest for the day.)

We’re not the only farm wives that trek to the fields at dinnertime.  Between 5 and 6 p.m. you might see several combines stopped and a small group huddled around a dropped tailgate or raised hatch of an SUV.  The group consists of the harvest crew, which can range from one person to several and any kids, the farm wife and sometimes passers-by who stopped to talk.  Let me just say, retired farmers and agri-businessmen are smart.  They know when meals are served and who cooks and bakes what.  I always make plenty for the “extra help”. 

I have my go-to recipes and laughed out loud the year my brother-in-law said of the first meal, “Let me guess.  Sausage and rice casserole.”  Guess I had served that several years in a row. 

The kids get to see their dad, because they often go for days at a time not seeing him.  He starts work at 5 a.m. and will go until 9 or 10 p.m.  Meals in the field give the men a break to stretch their legs, talk to each other face to face instead of through the radio and to stop and see what they’ve accomplished. 

Standing in a harvested field at dusk sharing a meal, one can see for miles to where the purple night sky meets the earth. The low voices and deep laughter of the harvest crew fades quickly into the dusty waning light.  I am reminded of how tiny we are in the grand scheme of nature’s life cycle and yet so very blessed to be sharing the thrill of harvest with good people. 

Katie Pratt
Grand Prairie Farms

IT finally happened this year. Our daughter, Jenna, became old enough for 4-H. Old enough to show cattle. Considering my husband and I have talked about showing cattle with children who didn’t yet exist since pretty much the day we met, it’s a fair understatement to say we were excited.

 And yet, so little in life goes as planned.

The cattle had been led and groomed, the boots bought, the bling chosen. And you know how you read those glowing stories with sun-kissed photos and reports of perseverance and hard work paying off?  Well, this isn’t one of them.

The day started off well. Seven-year-old Nathan showed his little bottle calf, Buddy. It was as adorable as you might expect a ring full of little kids and little calves to be. Judge Dick Burns told them, “You all are some of the very few kids in the entire world who get to have this kind of an experience.” Amen.

Then Jenna showed her heifer, Granite. Granite is a reasonably laid-back Simmental-Angus cross. We’ve worked with her endlessly. But for some reason that day, the Angus in her (and I say that as a die-hard Shorthorn girl who did not get her way in the heifer selection department) became fully apparent. She wasn’t exactly easy to show. Burns even said as much and complimented Jenna on doing a good job with her.

On to the steer show. Jenna took Gus into the ring. Somewhere on the first lap, he stepped square on her right boot. She wanted to cry, but didn’t.  I had my eye on the steer next to her.  He was acting ornery and was being shown by another first-timer.

Sure enough, as they pulled up after being placed, that steer tried to mount Gus. In the cluster that ensued, the steer kicked Jenna in the side as he mounted Gus, and for a fleeting but ever-lastingly long second, I thought the two steers were going to tumble on top of her. There’s a fair chance my nephew still has finger marks on his arm because he had the unfortunate luck of standing next to me during all of this.

Jenna was crying but OK, and I wound up being that mom who escorts her poor injured child out of the ring. We iced her foot and checked out the hoof-sized bruise that was already forming on her side. But through her tears, she insisted, “I still (sob) want (sob) to do (sob) showmanship!”

I’ve hardly been so proud.

And so she did. And then the heifer stepped on the same foot as the steer did. She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. She was done. And so were we. The show was over. Done.

County fair-bound
Fast-forward two more shows — to the county fair. Jenna showed like a champ. She took home a plaque for champion Simmental heifer. Her animals behaved. She was thrilled. Best of all: She won the Sunrise Showmanship contest for first-year showmen. It’s a big deal in our county; even her dad competed in it. 

Now, I’ve hardly been so proud.

Jenna worked hard. She had tough competition, and as judge Adam Dryer pointed out, these kids will be fighting it out in showmanship for the rest of their showing careers. She knew everything there was to know about her calf, and told Dryer most of it — until he finally cut her off, laughing. Most of all, she had the look of a kid who wanted to win. She had an animal to show off, and she wanted the judge to take a look. That’s what it takes to win.

There’s a certain walk to a kid who’s done well and knows it. She has a jaunty step. She holds her head up. She smiles. Big. She says “thank you” a lot, as people who’ve never spoken to her stop and offer congratulations.

She left the ring with her head held high. No tears. No disappointments, no regrets, no bruises. This was our Jenna at the county fair.

This is why we do this. 

Holly Spangler
Marietta, Illinois

Used with permission from Prairie Farmer. This story first appeared in September 2012, page 16.    To see this story, go to:     http://magissues.farmprogress.com/PRA/PF09Sep12/pra016.pdf

A hot meal will stop a working tractor or combine almost as quickly as a breakdown. Proof lies in the power of opening the van’s hatchback at supper-time. The harvest crew, a.k.a. relatives and farm help, start to gather like Grandpa’s cattle when he drives into the pasture with his pickup truck. They simply want a taste of what you brought to eat. Cattle expect a bucket of grain. The harvest crew desires a hot, home-cooked meal or the occasional take-out from town.

Sometimes traditions change and new lifestyles intervene. Yet food delivery to the working crew in the field remains one that some farm families like mine still preserve. Even this tradition has evolved with the introduction of warehouse club memberships and Styrofoam take-out containers.

A field-side picnic seems warm and fuzzy, and it really is in the moment. (In fact, the field remains my favorite place to dine.) But the daily process to plan, prepare and deliver proves a downright hassle sometimes, even for a farm woman who works from home. Often, her roles have heightened with farm records and marketing in addition to traditional farm and home duties.
The nightly preparation and delivery of a half dozen meals taxes the pantry and the mental menu for my mom. I relieve her about once a week, or at least contribute food to the cause. She looks for variety within the parameters of what the crew members will eat. Even then, you have a few short orders, such as warming green beans for the broccoli haters. She knows whether they like mustard or mayo, whether they’ll even put a spoon in yogurt or cottage cheese or need a side of ketchup with their peas (my kids).

At the start of harvest, I shared lunch with our son at a local sandwich shop and watched a farm woman at work. Without asking, I quickly identified that the visibly stressed lady in front of me was taking food to the field. The giveaways: The down-to-earth appearance. Open insulated containers on the table near the checkout. And a multiple sandwich order complicated by her mental recollection of several people’s topping preferences. Usually only wives know a man’s relationship with certain foods. Unless you’re a farm woman. Then you know it for all the farm employees and sometimes their kids.

I confirmed her motive at the beverage station and sympathized. She mentioned her preference to drive a tractor or grain truck. The task seemed simpler and focused. And she hoped no unannounced kids were tagging along in the field that day. Or she would be without a sandwich.

Joanie Stiers
Farm woman
Freelance writer from west-central Illinois

Most of my personal belongings have been in a livestock trailer while Grandpa’s cattle were still grazing the back pasture. Our couch, kitchen table, sock drawer and bath linens a couple times traveled in the vented shelter of a trailer designed to haul pigs and cattle.

One of the coolest things about living or working on a farm is access to stuff. A backhoe to plant trees in our yard. A flatbed trailer to haul lumber for a house project. Farmers are known to give equipment multiple roles on the farm. As a child, Mom swam in a large, round livestock water tank, which served the cattle when she and her brothers were done with it. Old tractor tires became sandboxes. The hayrack was a float in the homecoming parade. We even used the machine shed for our wedding reception.

Just in the last 16 months, Grandpa’s 27-foot livestock trailer has moved grandchildren to new homes three times. The trailer has unloaded belongings along a city street, country road and a subdivision between the extremes.

Like our home when company is coming, most farmers’ livestock trailers are spotless only on special occasions. Those include when a farmkid’s furniture needs moved or during 4-H Fair time, when we would spend a couple hours pressure-washing the manure from the trailer’s interior to make a shining appearance at the fairgrounds.

These recent family moves reminded me of annual move-in days during college. More than likely, the upper-classmen who served on the dormitory moving crews still recall my arrival and no one else’s. The gal next door rented a U-Haul to transport her belongings. Other families had mini vans with the back seats removed. We had a pickup truck pulling a livestock trailer that stated the name and address of our farm. For six consecutive years, livestock trailers hauled my brother or me to college.

We know how to move furniture farm style.
 
Joanie Stiers
Williamsfield, Illinois

My 5-year-old daughter couldn’t wait to get off the bus recently and head to the corn field our family was harvesting. In fact, after a quick hug, she asked me to confirm our evening plans in the field and bounced with joy at the affirmative response.

Specifically, she loves to eat supper in the field. It’s her all-around favorite place to dine, trumping Grandma’s house and the nearby sandwich shop with arcade games. In fact, she will have her sixth birthday party in a corn or soybean field this week.

Greetings from west-central Illinois, where we grow corn and soybeans about a three-hour drive from Chicago. Also on some of my family’s farms you’ll find wheat, hay, cattle, pigs, a few barn cats and farm dogs. Corn and soybeans generate our household farm income and makes a living for my parents and brother.

Right now we’re harvesting the crops and have more than a month to go. Unless it rains, we work daily until bedtime or later. Harvest keeps my husband away from home most waking hours for our kids, ages 5 and 3. After his 7-to-5 farm equipment job, he heads to the field to relieve a member of the daytime harvest crew. The kids and I join him in the field to share some experience-based family time. The kids ride in the tractor, visit with their dad and mingle with most of the crew, which includes three grandpas, an uncle and two friends. With the kids’ presence, we often have four generations of our farm family in the same field!

To the kids’ delight, Grandma delivers a hot supper, such as roast, meatloaf, hot sandwiches and pork chops. She is our primary farm family cook. I pitch in with full and partial evening meals throughout the season. The guys are as eager as the kids for this meal, an anticipated segment of their day. Preparing food for about eight people nightly requires prudent stocking-up for us, as we live 22 miles from a city grocery store. The routine task requires commitment and dedication, but broken down we show love and care through cooking. We extend the same care to how we farm.

Most often, the evening meals are threaded with happiness that harvest is progressing. Yet, some days can be stressful, such as when a field’s production is disappointing, machinery breaks down, or field conditions prove challenging. Regardless, the guys greet the kids with smiles on their evening picnic in the field.

Our 5-year-old daughter turns 6 this week. Having a baby during harvest is a blog entry in itself, but for now I’ll quickly say it’s hard to work in a family party. Instead of waiting for a rainy day, we’re taking the meal, cake, homemade ice cream and presents to the field this year. She’ll feel like a queen at her princess-themed harvest party.


Joanie Stiers
Williamsfield, IL