The Last Word Editor’s Notes by Ann Clinton aclinton@iasoybeans.com
Corona Chronicles
I
’ve edited the pages of this magazine from my kitchen table in southwest Iowa. Typically, my family and I only get to spend our weekends and vacation time in our little farmhouse. During the week, we live, attend school and work in the city. However, my heart has never left the land where I was raised, and as often as possible, I return to this place. During this time of quarantine, I’ve worked remotely from the farm. I’ve communicated closely with the magazine’s designer, photographer and contributors via video conferencing. We’ve sent files back and forth, utilizing incredibly efficient technology. We’ve figured out how to do the work, even if our methods are a little different from normal. However, it’s a little ironic, I think. These days, I’m on the farm, connected remotely to the city. Usually, I’m in the city, connected remotely to the farm … to you. Massive worry about a worldwide pandemic aside, the change of venue has been good for me. For the first time in a very long time, I’ve been able to watch as area farmers prepare
for the planting season. There’s no sign of any work slowing down out in the fields. The term “essential workers” is really a no-brainer as it applies to farmers. Of course, you are going to do what needs to get done. As I continue to monitor the current and potential impacts of COVID-19 on the agricultural economy, I’m reminded of the true resilience of a farmer’s spirit. Despite all of the challenges; the 2020 crop will get in the ground. My dad called this morning, ribbing me about how he was going to join “millions of other Americans as they work-at-home today.” Then, as I stood in the window, I watched him drive north, pulling on anhydrous tank up the road. He honks as he drives by, and it’s strangely comforting. In the evenings, we like to run the country square. Most times, we never see a vehicle but, every once in a while, a pickup will roll by, careful not to kick up too much dust. If you’re not familiar with this part of the state, the hills down here are no joke. I’m confident they make me a better runner when I’m back in the
city. But more importantly, I KNOW they make me a better writer. I think about you readers when I’m out there on those gravel roads – one foot in front of the other, mile after mile. I can’t pretend to relate to your worries or farming considerations, but more than anything, I want to seek to understand. Being out here makes me feel naturally curious and appreciative of agriculture, and everything you are doing during this time. As always, I not only appreciate your emails and feedback, but I’ve grown to rely on them for understanding. You make me think deeper about issues and how they relate to your farming operation. And you humble me when I have to admit I’m a complete idiot as it relates to … well … a lot of things. That’s good. The moment I get comfortable with my position is when I know I need to push harder to serve you better. As your planters start rolling through the fields, I’ll be thinking about you and your families. May we be surprised by an uneventful growing season. Stay well, my friends.
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