Mornings at my house are crazy busy! My farmer hubby milks his fresh cows and sick cows first thing in the morning, so he’s out the door super early.

In the weariness of winter, I start to think about planting my garden. I know it is way too early to put seeds in the ground, but peat cups and potting soil are my friends. I plant my tomatoes, peppers and cabbages in peat cups so they can get an early start on the season.

I can’t say no. Because of it I’ve ended up on top of a crane, on a tour bus with strangers and semi-kidnapped by a punk gang. It has led to some good stories. Many I use as party tricks. Someday, though, I suspect it might be the end of me.

It was a sunny morning, and I was already running behind. I pushed back a bit of frustration as I hastily put on my boots to head to the dairy. It was one of those days winter doesn’t spoil you with too often – sunny and 50ºF – making it destined to be a great day, no matter what, in my book.

As a dairy farmer, I am always thankful for the human body’s need for vitamin D, disposable latex gloves and the fact that it doesn’t snow here in Florida. Never has – except on that cold winter day of 1976 when my brother thought a snowflake landed on him.

Last spring we purchased a 9-month-old heifer, an unusual move for our farm. She was 200 GTPI points higher than anything tested in our herd, positive for all the traits we watch in genetic selection and comes from a cow family we really admire. She came from a farm nearby at a dispersal sale, and she sold at a price we felt was very reasonable given all of this.

“I believe in the future of agriculture …” If you donned a blue corduroy jacket during your high school days, those words hit a special place in your heart. They mark the beginning of the FFA Creed, a five-paragraph essay that eloquently explains the mission of one of the nation’s largest and oldest youth organizations, the FFA.

You can usually tell what a farmer raises just by driving down a farm lane, whether it’s dairy cows, corn, beef, hogs or children. A tree house in the old oak tree, a swing set in the yard, a tricycle next to the garage and a whole slew of miniature farming implements in the barn are all surefire signs that there is a miniature farmer on the payroll.

In December, we published our final stand-alone issue of El Lechero magazine. We wish to thank the thousands of dairies who requested this magazine over its lifetime. It’s been exactly a decade since we launched this magazine for dairy managers and owners.

Before, I had thought mid-life crises had to look like this: You get a Mustang or a younger partner, maybe change your job or get a new haircut or hike through a remote mountain chain. Maybe you take up tango or change your name to Bastet, the Egyptian goddess of love and beauty, and then force everyone to call you that. My mother, however, did none of that in her middle years.