As this goes to print, a highly anticipated time of the year for many has come around again: hunting season. When I’m asked to describe western New York, I tell the person it’s hills and deer hunting. We don’t have the big white-tail racks found in the Corn Belt, but a mix of fields and woods supports a strong regional herd.

As I write, it is only two weeks until I turn 30. Although I’ve known it was coming for a while, only now, seeing it in print, do I realize what a large sum the number contains. Although it is a common and predictable angst shared by all of humanity that makes it this far, that does not lessen its totality.

Lately, I’ve been listening to classical music in the milking parlor. I do it while spraying it down, when everyone else is gone. Sometimes when searching for the music I wanted I would go too far and land on the classical music station. Usually, I switched it back right away. I surprised myself the first time I didn’t.

My parents have a bad habit that I don’t condone: They watch “The Bachelorette” on ABC. In the reality show, either a man or woman spends the season narrowing down a group of potential partners in search of “love.” I call it a loss in the battle for cultural integrity. They call it entertaining.

Recently, I went to the alumni banquet of Canaseraga Central School, the high school I, my father and my grandfather attended. Currently, the district only has 250 students enrolled from kindergarten to 12th grade.

A year ago this summer, supporters of a 75-year-old Indiana farmer received disappointing news. The Supreme Court ruled against Vernon Bowman and his fight against Monsanto. Many are already familiar with the details after the story garnered national attention several years ago. Bowman purchased Monsanto soybean seed every year for his 300-acre crop farm.

The reality of time isn’t as rigid as it seems. According to Einstein’s theory of relativity, it is affected by various factors, including gravity and speed of motion. Time moves slower at higher elevations – being further from the earth’s pull.

Eight years ago, I stood in line in front of the Vatican. I had a friend living in Italy at the time, and we took the train into Rome. Although we had gotten there early, there were – unsurprisingly – a lot of people ahead of us.

I was able to come to Iceland by convincing the U.S. and Icelandic governments to let me write about what it means to be a dairy farmer on the island.As the end of my time draws near, I’m forced to reflect on how well I’ve answered that question.

It was 9 p.m. when we arrived at the Cowshed Café, but since they knew we were coming, they still waited. I had convinced Matt, a Canadian friend, to go on an “agritourism trip” through Iceland with me.