Big Rocks in Little Boots

On her first day of kindergarten, I stood in an empty afternoon parking lot and texted Cody, “No one is here???”

He responded seconds later, “Of course not. You’re 45 minutes early.” Sometimes his common sense drives me absolutely nuts.

I sat on the bench anyway, wondering if Caroline had been worried sick about me all day, as I had been about her. Turns out, she didn’t even know I was gone.

Months later and when my schedule allows, I love parking on a side street and picking her up from school. She typically talks so quickly and with such enthusiasm that I know all about her 8:20 AM – 2:40 PM day by the time we get back to the car.

But this day was different.

“Why didn’t you give me pants with pockets today?” Caroline asked me as I kissed her head and grabbed her little hand.

I looked down to see what she was wearing: leggings.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I thought you liked stretchy pants?” I tried to justify my 6:00 AM wardrobe selection for her. Who doesn’t like stretchy pants?

She suddenly stopped on the sidewalk and held my hand tightly as she tried to keep her balance. One at a time, she pulled each cowgirl boot off and dumped them out.

“Well, I’m sure glad you came to get me ‘cause I found these for you today and I didn’t have pockets so I just put them in my boots.”

Three rocks fell out of her boots and onto the sidewalk. She slipped her cowboy boots back on. “Ah. That’s better.”

The child had walked with rocks in her boots all day in an effort to please me.

“Caroline. Honey, you did not have to save those for me.”

“But I’ve never seen any like them! I found them during recess.”

“Morning or afternoon?” I asked, not that it mattered.

“Morning. I didn’t find any after lunch.”

In five years of motherhood, I’ve been gifted approximately 400 rocks, most off our farm. Many get shoved in pockets and later removed from the washing machine, but there are a few I’ll keep forever: The one she brought to me when I was in the hospital with Cyrus as he battled RSV at 6-weeks-old, the one she gave me when I was at Riley with Cyrus for his appendectomy and critical infection (sure sounds like a sickly little boy, doesn’t he?), the one she found in the barn lot that she is absolutely positive is Jesus’s tooth, and of course, I’ll keep these rocks, too.

Caroline with the rock she brought me, 

sitting outside Reid hospital 

when infant brother Cyrus had RSV

Because these rocks awakened me to the lengths Caroline will go to please me. What an eye-opening set of rocks! What a tender heart (and tough feet) she has to find such an object and want to share it with me, no matter the cost.

I praised her for the rocks. I studied the rocks and held the rocks and even showed the rocks to Cyrus. I’m sure this will shock you, but he could not care less. “What ‘bout ‘em?” he asked, confused as to what the fuss was all about. Caroline stood with such pride for being the gifter of greatness.

These little rocks in tiny boots taught me a lesson that day. Our kids are watching. They’re watching how we react to little victories and favors. They’re watching how we visit with them during the unremarkable conversations in the barn or on the couch. They love to watch our eyes light up in the same way we love to watch theirs.

I was reminded of this advice from Catherine M. Wallace, Author: “Listen earnestly to anything your children want to tell you, no matter what. If you don't listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won't tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.”

And these rocks in a little Ball jar on top of my dresser, they may fit in a size 9 toddler boot, but they’re big.

Really big.

 

You Are Enough

Earlier this week I was asked to attend a career fair at my alma mater and recruit the best and brightest from Purdue's College of Agriculture. 
No pressure. 
Nearly 1/3 of our awesome employees will retire in the next 10 years. 
No pressure. 
At all. 

The long day spent standing on the wood floors of the Union took me back to place in my life - not too terribly long ago (like yesterday and 100 years ago all at the same time) when internships were something only upperclassmen were charged with and I only attended a career fair because I thought it included ferris wheels and carmel apples. 
I hate it when you show up to an event looking for cotton candy and walk away with 17 pencils, 4 business cards and a mouse pad. 
Darn. 
It. 
Reality. 
And growing up. 
That was my freshman year. 
I had so much to learn. 
And I did. 
And I want to share that with ag kids trying to find a professional place in the industry - after their 5:00 mornings on the family farm have passed. 

Be Confident

You have done so much up to this moment - the vulnerable moment when it seems you're throwing yourself out to the entire, mature world. 

Only you know what it's like to make the dreaded walk up to the barn to tell your Dad that you've mown the rock that has stood in the same field for 1,000 years. 

Only you have called your Momma to tell her that everyone is OK, but your truck isn't. 

Only you have cared for animals you've lost, rode in the buddy seat and seen your Dad's heart break and watched your Grandma's arthritic hands pray for rain that never came. 

Only you have juggled FFA, 4-H, BPA, Student Government, cheerleading and studies. 

You've survived. 

Beautifully. 

You've done so much up to this moment. 

Be confident in all that you are and all that you are yet to be. Stand up straight. Look them in the eye. Be proud that - during this 3-minute flash interview - you're representing your Dad's farm and your Momma's dream. 

That's you. 

Firm Handshakes Are Still Better Than Fist Bumps

I don't know or care what's in style (I still love 80's hair and wear high-wasited jeans to the office every Friday), but I do know with certainty that a weak handshake is the first point of differentiation in agriculture. 

It wasn't long ago that handshakes were as telling as the wax seal on the exterior of a formal proposal letter. 

It wasn't long ago that we didn't need legal counsel; a man's word and handshake was enough. 

It wasn't long ago that prenuptial agreements didn't exist. 

And though we're far past those days, a firm handshake still outweighs a dead fish. 

I don't care if you're asking to mow the neighbor's yard or looking for corporate experience - may your handshake be firm. Let the recipient know your intentions are sincere. 

Get your hair out of your face and tuck in your shirt.

This is just really fundamental guidance that your mother probably wore out during your formative  years, but darn it - it still matters today. 

I can't count on my hands the number of young men who needed their hair cut, the young ladies who wore ill-fitting clothes or the number of square toe boots that needed polish. 

Any other day you may wear your hair so the professor doesn't know when you fall asleep.
Any other day you may wear whatever you'd like (don't be an idiot) to the social event on Saturday night. 

Any other day you may wear your favorite boots to 27 farms/ranches to look at stock. 

But when it comes to the career fair - pull that deal together. 

You have one chance! 

Get the hair cut; show us those pretty, honest eyes. 

Wear the flattering suit; we need not know what color underwear you wear, but we'd like to know your gender. 

Polish your boots. A boot cleaning kit is an awesome gift. It will last years! 

Consider this: You can't get into Canada with boots in that condition - what makes you think you'll get the job?

You Are Not Here to Land Your Dream Job

Understand this: Your first job won't be your dream job. 

The toughest job you'll have to land is your first job. You can always use connections to look for a second opportunity. 

The career fair - the networking in college - is about exploration and learning corporate culture and people and positions. It's not about landing a job in your home county or making more money than your roommate right out of the gate. 

Your dream job comes after a few years - maybe even decades? - of experience. 

Your dream job comes after years of dangerous learning curves and fear that you're fixin' to derail. 

Your dream job comes after you've skipped nights on the town with friends to go back to your empty apartment and eat generic Cheerios, topped with honey from home.

It gets better!

I promise you that. No toes crossed. 

You Are Enough

You have carried a load, at only 18, 21, 23 years old.
Life has been good in agriculture, but things are changing. 
You have a family at home as passionate as you - with expectations ever greater. 
You have a Dad that made it through the 1980's in agriculture and absolutely expects you to do the same, when someday asked. 
You have a mother that set the bar extremely high. A college degree. An admirable job. She still packed your lunch everyday before school. She still looks 10 years younger than her classmates, despite years in the sun. 
You have been able to watch your Granddad and Dad work side-by-side and make the family farm what it is today. And after schooling, you're silently expected to take it to the next level.

But you. 
Yes, you, with - what seems like - the weight of the world and the future on your shoulders:
You are enough. 
Did you hear me?
Yes, I'm talking to you. 
Take out your ear buds and read that line again:
You. Are. Enough. 
You have so much work to do. You have so very much to learn. And that is OK.
You are smart and loved and make folks proud. 
Sure, you have pressure on your shoulders - it is good for you. 
That pressure on your shoulders is sure to keep you grounded. 
So when you interview for the internship off the farm or the first job, remember that years of day-to-day experience have landed you here. 
Don't be consumed with the idea that you're inadequate in front of 35-year-old professionals who seems to have it together. 
Because those professionals - in their pressed slacks and perfectly starched oxford - wish that someone would have stood in front of them at 21, shook their nervous, clammy hands and simply said: This is just the beginning. You are enough. 

My day at Purdue was a good one; it was a mini reunion, seeing so many folks I went to school with, working to recruit the same kids. 
We're on the other side of the fence now, as 35-year-old professionals - in pressed slacks and perfectly starched oxfords - who seem to have it together. 

We were staring right into the bright and shining faces of the next generation of ag kids. 
Granted, the shining may have been beads of sweat.
But Dan Seals said it best: Not all that glitters is gold. 
Sometimes, it's just nerves. 

You are enough. 
Young or old. 
In agriculture or not. 
Now go change the world. 

If The Boot Fits

If I ever go missing I'm certain my disappearance will first be noticed when I miss a Wednesday blog. 
Thank you for the texts, calls and emails checking on my well-being. Read assured, I was overwhelmed with responsibilities last week, not tucked in a dumpster at a truck stop along I-80. 

Back to 7:00 am Wednesdays...

It's been another frigid few days in Indiana as below zero temperatures and snow coated the area. Per the usual poor timing, Cody was out of town judging the San Antonio Stock Show and really missing out on all the fun back home. Someone hand me a towel, that last sentence is dripping with sarcasm. 

Frozen valves on electric water tanks, calving cows and heifers, frozen pipes in the house and wind so strong we lost siding. Oh, and I watched our 16-month nephew for the weekend, which ended up being the absolute highlight. And in all of my free time I went to work at my real, full time job. 

 

On Monday evening I went in the house to change into my barn clothes. I suited up, complete with insulated everything, and traveled back out to the barn. I couldn't help but notice the stark differences in my tracks into the old homestead and my tracks out. One reflected the wedge boots paired with slacks and a blouse worn to business meetings throughout the day. The returning tracks represented a pair of Muck boots full of already-cold feet and three pairs of socks.

Such different roles one person can - and must - play throughout the course of a day. If the boot fits, I thought to myself. 

How many different boots do you wear throughout the day?

The teacher turned housekeeper?
The lawyer turned peacekeeper?
The nurse turned one in need of attention?
The banker turned rancher?
The politician turned introvert?
The geneticist turned cook?
The shining star turned coward?
The thought leader turned dreamer?
The designer turned addict?
The addict turned father?
The pastor turned event planner?
The optimist turned pessimist? 
The wife turned actress?
The stockman turned salesman?
The trainer turned glutton?
The stay-at-home mom turned financial analyst?
The assistant turned boss?
Or better yet: The boss turned assistant?
Or do you wear so many different boots that you can't keep track?

And why do those boots change?
Well, for me: I just don't think our CEO would appreciate me tracking calf placenta from one end of the office to the other. 

But other than the obvious - why do we change the boots we wear in a day?
We want to. 
We need to. 
We're made. 
We're asked. 
We're demanded. 
It pays the bills. 
You're too afraid not to. 
It's expected of you. 
You've never questioned it. 
You know no other way. 

A person will wear a lot of different boots in a day, let alone a lifetime. My challenge to you is recognizing those boots and the relevance they provide in your life. The rhyme, the reason. 
What boots can you put in the toss pile?
Which ones should you put on more often?

I returned home from work convinced there was no need to change out of my manager heels and into my work boots. Cody was home from Texas and he would likely spend hours well into the dark outside catching up on things around the farm. 

Wrong. 

He gave me a beautiful Charlie Favour cuff and and undebatable invitation to slip into something....- warmer -....and come back outside to help him thaw the ears of the newest baby, born at -6º. 

"Don't forget your hair dryer!" he called across the barn lot. I made the familiar trek up the sidewalk.

At some point in the last twenty four hours I've taken off the manager boots and slipped into assistant - finally and thank goodness. 

I was getting half concerned that I'd have to learn to tag calves in heels to improve efficiencies. 

Fourth Annual Jean's Boots Christmas Letter

It's the evening of December 23rd and I'm just sitting down to write my obligatory Christmas letter that outlines the middle-of-the-road happenings in our world for the last twelve months.. 
For the sake of time, I hope none of you have dial up.

Though there were no earth shattering events to fill the last twelve months that went by so quickly, 2014 was good to us.

We logged countless outdoor hours while making improvements to the farm we bought last August:

• New electric in three barns
• Outdoor lighting 
• Created a working system
• New high tinsel fence on the west property boundary
• Cody installed four new waterers
• Converted the crop ground into pasture
• Caught two stray cats eating our barn cat's food

The inside of the house got a little attention, too, as I discovered the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and spent many Sunday afternoons "erasing" things. Just get the deal wet and wipe away! Note: The Mr. Clean Magic Eraser is, in fact, an eraser. It WILL erase paint. From walls. 

Though we've made awesome progress on the interior of the homestead, it's still an old farmhouse. And mice like old farmhouses when the temperature drops outside. After nagging (guilty) about setting a trap, one morning I found Cody standing in the middle of the kitchen with a mouse trap clamped on his finger and a teaspoon of peanut butter plopped on his forehead. And on the cupboard. And the window over the sink. Trap setting gone wrong. I made a sincere effort to not laugh aloud but it made my insides burn and I had a mouth full of coffee. PS Prayers were brief - and sticky - that day. 

In 2014 we celebrated one year of marriage and continue to charge through year two. Daily we learn more and more about one another and how we process thoughts differently. A brief, recent example:
After discussing dinner options one Friday evening:
Him: Let's go there. It's low-lit, kind of dark...
Me: Whoa. Is this really a date night? (optimist)
Him: No, I just don't want anyone to see the mud on my jeans. (realist)

Cody was on the road often for work in the last year,  so I enlisted the help of my family to keep this place operational. This plan typically worked. Typically. Until one Saturday when Luke and I were feeding hay and we were reminded why Dad generally gave us to-do lists for different farms growing up. Even in our thirties, we tend to get ourselves in situations. 

These photos were all taken after we miraculously got the tractor pulled out. 

This place could really use a good freeze. 

In May great friend Katie Mae, of Fancy In The Country, and I took our annual girls' trip and decided to head east rather than west.

We antiqued, dined and explored all that West Virginia had to offer....including the Mystery Hole. In my thirty years of life, The Mystery Hole was one of the most strange, creepy, this is how Dateline always starts, places I've ever been. But we took the tour, experienced the bizarreness that is The Mystery Hole and lived to tell about it. 

In November I was fortunate enough to spend ten days in Argentina studying their culture, economics and agriculture systems. What an amazing opportunity. While I was enjoying the land of red meat and Malbec, Cody was judging the junior Angus show at the North American. I was bummed that I wasn't able to be there to support him, but modern technology really pulled through for us.  

As did the wine.

I did try to focus on personal development a bit in 2014 and really challenged myself to do better. Some personal achievements only worthy of sharing in this obligatory Christmas letter:

1. Made gravy from scratch that was digestible:

2. Took this panoramic shot of Buenes Aires without puking on the glass:

3. Got on a real serious health kick and used the local trail to walk three miles 

for three days straight. 

Three months ago. 

My goal for 2015 is to fine-tune my organizational skills so that Cody doesn't have to call me at work looking for the 4-wheeler keys. Or, send this photo two hours later illustrating where he actually found said missing keys. 

As soon as I saw it, I remembered: I hung them on that random wire on the side of the barn so I could run out to the mailbox. I was afraid if I carried them, they'd get lost in the shuffle....Hopefully my fine-tuning in 2015 brings Cody some sort of relief.

While we gladly spend the great majority of our evenings on the farm, every once in a while we leave the farm - together. In 2014 I surprised Cody with George Strait tickets and he returned the gesture with Eric Church tickets months later. How lucky are we to see two great ones in one year?

I think it's only fitting:

Another year turned into a memory. That's so hard to believe. I sure appreciate you keeping up with Jean’s Boots as I wear out more soles than I care to count. 

The Sankey’s wish you the best in 2015.

Lindsay Jean

Part One: Better With Age

Following a Memorial Day weekend spent out of town for a wedding, I came home to an alarming site:
Granola bars scattered across the kitchen floor. 
A Bonnie Mohr print that was once on a tripod, laying face down in the middle of the living room floor. 

And worst of all: My beloved fern in pieces across the dining room. 

Confused and quite freaked out, I spotted the bandit still inside our home, laying under the kitchen table...DEAD. 
But before dying, of course, it left droppings all throughout our house that sat empty for three days. 
A Starling. 
In our home. 
Reeking havoc. 
And demolishing my fern. 
I removed the disgusting bird (while crying and gagging simultaneously) with pliers and bleached the place down. 
Our home looked better, but the fern was a mess. It was as though the dirty bird nested there all weekend. I was sick. 
Sick over a house plant, you ask?

This fern isn't just any house plant. 

It is a symbol of things that 
get better with age. 

When I was a young girl, we visited Bob and Ula Marie House at Wonder View Farm. The names may ring a bell - or maybe not. They were the couple that sold Momma and Dad their (our) first Shorthorn cows. Rosewood was one of the great ones that came from the House family and Wonder View Farm, and today her story lives on at BSG.

Driving down their lane that evening was like stepping back in time. A beautiful, well-maintained yard. A full garden. No weeds in site. A modest white farmhouse which stood with great pride. While the guys went to the barn, I remember that Ula Marie invited Momma and I inside their home to exchange some information for our Home Extension Club. Momma was a fairly young member, and Ula Marie was quite active. As we entered the home, I couldn't help but notice dozens of ferns in the back entry way. Ferns of all sizes, in several different pots. Momma raved over them, and that's when Ula Marie told us about the profound significance of these ferns. 

Bob (who, as I write this, is 85-years-old) had a great-grandmother who maintained a fern at her homestead and would give "starts" of that fern to family members. She would separate the roots and place them into a new planter to begin, or "start", a whole new fern. 
Pieces of that original fern were passed down through the generations and the original plant spanned homes, families and decades. 
In 1951 Bob married Ula Marie, and Ula Marie was given her own "start" to the family fern.
The array of ferns that I observed as a young girl in the House Homestead was just a small sampling of how much that fern had reproduced - and thrived - over the years. 
I was amazed by it. 

Weathered by time, change, location, atmosphere, various owners and more - these ferns remained a testament to the power of all things that are able to stand the test of time and get better with age.  

As a young girl, the story of that family fern certainly remained in the back of my mind. Because of the symbolism they held for family and time-tested durability, ferns became my favorite plants, and I've used them widely as a homeowner over the last six years. Each time I bought - or buy - a fern, with gratitude I think of Bob and Ula Marie House and the "start" they gave my own family in terms of Shorthorn cattle. 

Aspiring to have a wedding day - and marriage - where even the smallest details hold great meaning, at our wedding last August we had nothing at the alter but ferns. 
My bouquet was made of ferns and The Growing Tree. 

BowSankey Wedding Flowers Getting Watered

As a wedding gift, Bob and Ula Marie gave Cody and I our very own "start" to the family fern. A gesture of heritage, dedication, durability and things that get better with age. 

Soooo.....It was our "start" that I found in the middle of the floor Sunday night. Perhaps you now understand why I'm nursing this plant back to life after the bird of death has demolished it.

In a world where few things actually improve over time, I find myself holding onto this darn heritage house plant with the hope that I can give someone else another "start" as Bob and Ula Marie gave my parents in cattle and Cody and I in marriage. 

Few things get better with age. 

But oh, some things do. 

Your friends
Your favorite song
Your favorite pair of jeans and boots
Love you give and receive
Your judgement
Your 401K plan
Your confidence
Your breeding program and legacy
Your antiques
Clint Eastwood and Sam Elliott
And let us not forget the The Wine.

Look around you. 
What things in your life can - or do - get better with age?
Do you appreciate them as you should?
How can you preserve them?
How can you make them better for the next?
Or Protect them?
Or Pass them on for the next generations?

I encourage you to be the kind of person who enjoys the things that get better with age. 

Because quite frankly, you're not getting any younger. 

This is the first of a two part series. 

Read tomorrow for the second half of Better With Age!