In 1945, at the age of 89, Liberty Hyde Bailey refelcted on farming of the 19th century. This was his boyhood and immediate experience with the world. This piece penned for the magazine, The Furrow, Bailey takes a non-nostalgic look of our past. It is a testimony of what was being lost in the industrialization of agriculture and still strikes a cord for us today.
From: “The Furrow, Deere & Company," January-February, 1945, Volume 50
My father could not complain about the weather, because the Lord made the weather. Uncle Jim, a neighbor, complained about the weather; therefore, he should not have been a farmer. Rewards were in the satisfaction of farming. These satisfactions could not be taken away. Farming was the natural occupation. We had barely heard of the big word agriculture! I remember that we had a feeling something like pity or even condescension toward those who had been so unfortunate as not to be farmers. We, as farmers, inherited the earth...
The crops came out of the earth. The animals came from the earth. We did not know why or even how; and thereby was the mystery, and therefore the devotion, heightened. We accepted, and were grateful. Ours was the privilege. The crops came out of the earth. The animals came from the earth. We did not know why or even how; and thereby was the mystery, and therefore the devotion, heightened. We accepted, and were grateful. Ours was the privilege.
That was more than fifty years ago. We have learned much since then, not only about the reasons but also about the dissatisfactions. We have learned to complain. We are critics of the occupation. We know bugs in the millions. We know the disadvantages of weather, perhaps more vividly than the advantages. We know the rates of interest. We think we know the usurer. In those days we did not borrow money at the institutions because we would then lose independence. It was better to go without, and go free. For the same reason we did not want money in the bank, even if we had the money. My father was free and ready to tell any man what he thought of him if the man asked him; but we were taught never to talk about a man “behind his back.”
From: “The Furrow, Deere & Company," January-February, 1945, Volume 50
My father could not complain about the weather, because the Lord made the weather. Uncle Jim, a neighbor, complained about the weather; therefore, he should not have been a farmer. Rewards were in the satisfaction of farming. These satisfactions could not be taken away. Farming was the natural occupation. We had barely heard of the big word agriculture! I remember that we had a feeling something like pity or even condescension toward those who had been so unfortunate as not to be farmers. We, as farmers, inherited the earth...
The crops came out of the earth. The animals came from the earth. We did not know why or even how; and thereby was the mystery, and therefore the devotion, heightened. We accepted, and were grateful. Ours was the privilege. The crops came out of the earth. The animals came from the earth. We did not know why or even how; and thereby was the mystery, and therefore the devotion, heightened. We accepted, and were grateful. Ours was the privilege.
That was more than fifty years ago. We have learned much since then, not only about the reasons but also about the dissatisfactions. We have learned to complain. We are critics of the occupation. We know bugs in the millions. We know the disadvantages of weather, perhaps more vividly than the advantages. We know the rates of interest. We think we know the usurer. In those days we did not borrow money at the institutions because we would then lose independence. It was better to go without, and go free. For the same reason we did not want money in the bank, even if we had the money. My father was free and ready to tell any man what he thought of him if the man asked him; but we were taught never to talk about a man “behind his back.”
We did not debate about the satisfactions of farming. It was not necessary. We did not debate about breathing. The sun and the season made the day, and we could neither help or avoid that fact. Every new year would be better than the last. It was our obligation to find the new satisfactions, to raise a heavier crop of wheat, more bushels of apples and better ones, a better flock of sheep, more pails of milk, at the same time old fences were repaired and the drains were kept open and free. I remember how we watched birds every year and saw them build clean nests. There was a vigor in the scene. I do not remember much talk about money; there was not enough of it to make us anxious for its keeping. New harvests would come anyway, if we worked hard enough. Success in any year depended on a man’s own effort, not on an organization; this made the result worth while.
The old order has passed. It will not return. We do not wish it to return. We are better off now. We have become business farmers and contestants and men of the world. We are no longer set off from other men. Our votes are important. I remember the old order keenly. I lived it in devotion. But I do not want it back. Yet with all the affairs that now distract us, with our burning consciousness of woes and inequalities, with our insistent privilege of complaining, I wonder whether we have forgotten anything. I wonder whether any one of us has forgotten the satisfaction of tilling the earth. That is what makes a farmer.
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