Young farmers visit the big city

I was recently reminded of a gathering my wife and I attended back when we were young dairy farmers.

It’s hard to believe we were once considered young. We are now so ancient that verifying our age involves Carbon-14.

The long-ago soiree was a young farmer program hosted by our milk buyer. The affair was held in downtown Minneapolis, which was both exciting and problematic. It was exciting because it would be our first foray to the big city; it was problematic because it meant driving in the big city.

Our milk buyer furnished us with a printed map and driving instructions. The map proved highly useful although it failed to mention the NASCAR-like bumper-to-bumper traffic.

We somehow managed to navigate the terrifying hurly-burly of Twin Cities traffic and arrived safely at our hotel. After parking in the hotel’s cavernous and labyrinthine ramp, my wife pried her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel and announced, “We’re not driving again until it’s time to leave.” I heartily agreed.

We checked in and went directly to our room. I looked at the bed and the sweeping vista of the city skyline outside our window and said, “Let’s do that thing we’ve always wanted to do.”

So, we watched cable TV. Wow. A hundred channels and still nothing on. Even so, it felt upscale compared to the four channels of nothing at home.

It was soon time for our first function. We reported to the venue and some bigwig gave a speech that basically said, “We’re glad you’re here. Thank you for producing our nation’s food.” Then they fed us.

During the meal, we met a nice young dairy farmer couple I’ll call Deb and Wayne. We clicked immediately, having many things in common including young children at home and a visceral fear of driving in the Twin Cities.

Our milk buyer’s annual meeting was taking place, and we were encouraged to attend as many of its goings-on as possible. But we were scheduled for countless activities which generally included a tour, a speech by a bigwig saying how happy they were to have us and getting fed.

It was a challenge to become hungry. If we weren’t tucking into a feast, we were being urged to enjoy the free ice cream bars that were available everywhere. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a bunker of ice cream bars in the men’s room.

Some of our time was left open, and we were encouraged to explore the city. This would obviously not involve driving.

Wayne and Deb and my wife and I hopped a bus that took us down Nicollet Avenue. We got off at the foot of the IDS Tower, also known as the tallest building in Minnesota.

The four of us stood and gawked up at the prairie skyscraper. Wayne and I wondered how many tons of forage it might hold and how much horsepower it would take to blow silage up to the top. Deb and my wife wondered how many boutiques it held.

A passing Minneapolitan stopped near us and peered skyward. “Where’s the jumper?” he asked.

We sheepishly explained that this was our first time in the city and there was no jumper. The guy stalked off, shaking his head and muttering, “Rubes.”

After looking up at the IDS Tower from its bottom, we decided to visit its top. Imagine our relief when we learned that the high-rise had elevators.
We rode up to the top floor and discovered that it had a restaurant. We weren’t hungry but thought we could sit near a window and enjoy a refreshment while gazing out at the bustling city and fantasizing that we were masters of all we surveyed.

It was not to be. The maître d’ sniffily informed us that his establishment had a dress code and jeans were not allowed. He didn’t say it, but I could tell he was thinking, “Rubes.”

So, we left, stealing a frustrated backward glance at the luminous window and the nearby empty table that could have been ours.

The only calamity during our sojourn arrived via a frantic phone call from my wife’s grandma Milly, who was babysitting our two small sons. She reported that our youngest, aged 3, was insisting that he had to help Grandpa Nelson with the milking. It was the dead of winter, and he was preparing to walk the 2 miles to Grandpa’s farm to carry out this critical mission.

We told Milly it was OK to drive the lad to Grandpa’s place and that we would head for home just as soon as we finished our scrumptious ice cream bars.

Jerry is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two grown sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Jerry works full time for Dairy Star as a staff writer and ad salesman. Feel free to email him at [email protected].