It takes a village

Fall harvest always brings back many memories. One, in particular, is a story that my parents and I will never forget.

One day, my sister and I planned to live in the free stalls with the cows. That morning, right after the corn silage had been put up, we set off for the barn, determined to stay there as long as possible. We spent the day collecting corn from the feed, drinking out of the cattle waters, making beds in the sand and even washing and hanging our clothes right there in the free stalls.

By evening — when we still hadn’t come home — our parents started to worry. They drove all over the farm, calling out for us, but we couldn’t hear them over the roar of the fans. Fortunately, we emerged from our hiding spot to get more feed, only to find them frantically searching, terrified, but relieved to find us safe. Later, we learned they had been looking for us for over an hour and a half and were on the verge of calling up family and the fire department for help.

It also feels like just yesterday when I was sitting in Grandpa’s lap, steering the tractor with a load of corn silage trailing behind us. Now, as I write this, we’ve just finished chopping 7,500 tons of corn silage, and fall feels like it’s right around the corner again. We’re moving on to drilling our rye and triticale for spring harvest, hauling LOTS of manure now that we have room to spread it, and, of course, watching plenty of high school and college football. Go Raiders. Go Hawks.

None of this would be possible without the support of the people around us. Farming takes a village, but so does life.

Growing up, my village was small — just family and close friends — but it was enough. Our farm was the hotspot for my friends and me. I’m not quite sure how we managed to pull it off, but I am forever thankful my parents gave us the freedom to explore and be adventurous. We spent hours tearing around in the Ranger with our hair whipping behind us, digging deep holes in the cottonseed until our shirts were fuzzy, playing tag in the cow yards and, inevitably, stepping in something we’d later get scolded for tracking into the house. We created Broadway-worthy dance routines in the hay mound and, most importantly, we got to be our most feral, free selves.

Until recently, I never fully realized just how profound those small, everyday experiences on the farm truly were. At the time, they felt like simple moments — riding on the tractor with Dad, playing in the cotton seed, laughing until our stomachs hurt — but looking back, those moments were the building blocks of my childhood, shaping who I grew up to be in small, powerful ways.

The farm has a unique, almost magical ability to pull people in and leave lasting handprints on their hearts and their lives. The farm grounds you and teaches patience, resilience and the importance of hard work, all while offering moments of wild, unscripted fun.

Even now, years later, we find ourselves reminiscing about those days, sharing the same stories over and over, laughing just like we did back then. The memories haven’t faded; if anything, they grow more meaningful with time. None of it would have been possible without the dedication and love of our parents. They not only gave us a home but also a whole world to explore. I often find myself wishing that everyone could have experienced the fun, the chaos, the tough lessons and the kind of freedom we had.

That sense of joy and freedom is something I continue to chase every day. The beautiful thing is that you get to decide what your version of “wild fun” looks like.

One of the luxuries of working in the dairy industry is how diverse it is. There are so many different paths to take, and there’s no single right way to do it. The key is finding what feeds your soul and chasing it with everything you have. And if you aren’t happy? Pivot. That’s one of the powers that comes with ownership — of your animals, your work and your life.

Abby Fairbanks is the third-generation on her family’s farm. She works full-time with her parents, Doug and Jody, where they milk 400 cows  near Anamosa, Iowa.