The smell of pumpkin spice lattes, chopped corn silage and the last manure application of the year hang heavy in the air. It’s my favorite time of year. Not the pumpkin spice part; I’m a firm advocate of well water, the culinary delight known as Folgers and an old coffee pot that remembers the Civil War. It’s in the barn office and hasn’t been washed in two decades. At this point, we probably don’t even need coffee grounds or a filter; just add hot water and stir. A lil’ milk straight from the source to cool it down a bit and all is right with the world.

Chopping corn silage is always a fun time. It’s rewarding to harvest a crop after months of watching it grow and hours of irrigation. There is something mesmerizing about watching eight rows of corn get sucked up into a 12-inch square and turned into finely chopped pieces. It’s almost as rewarding as watching a campfire dance on a summer night without the stress of an 8-year-old boy pulling a burning stick out and stabbing his sister with it. It can also be a dangerous time as silage trucks are driven by 20-year-old kids running on three hours of sleep, Mountain Dew and cheap gas station cigarettes.

It’s always amazing to see an army of people running around, working diligently to chop, truck and stack the corn, and then when it’s time to cover the bunker with tarp and tires, it looks like Blockbuster Video with Netflix in every home. There is something about the thought of throwing whole tires around that are filled with old silage juice, the remnants of rat diets and even some current rat tenants.

Those hard physical jobs are the ones that provide a huge level of satisfaction when they are done, and there is a certain level of accomplishment when you drive by and see a large, properly covered corn silage pile. Only to be followed up with existential dread as you drive by after the first windstorm and see a huge tarp flapping in the wind and waving at you.

Part of our job as dairy farmers is managing relationships with neighbors as we apply God's gift to agronomy to our fields. This can be somewhat challenging when you deal with wealthy neighbors who moved from big cities to the country because they watched every episode of Yellowstone. The vision they have painted in their mind is walking around in cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, having three cows, wide-open spaces and an attitude of wanting to fight the federal government and maybe start fracking for oil. This dream all comes to a head when they realize that wide-open spaces are supported by animals doing animal things and making animal smells.

I had one such run-in with a wealthy neighbor lady who had more time on her hands than sense, and she informed me that I needed to be 250 feet away from her property line when I was spreading manure. When I informed her that 15 feet was the best I could do, and sent her pictures showing that we abided by said buffer, she threatened to call every governing body and agency in the entire state. After a phone call and pictures to our regulator inspector, he informed me that she would be directed to him. We live in a right-to-farm state, and applying manure in an agronomic manner is not a violation. After she spoke with him, she said she would be happy with my 15-foot buffer and wouldn’t make my life any more difficult than trying to keep cows alive and employees happy. I’m probably not on the Christmas card list anymore.

It’s always an interesting time dealing with people and their issues. So, be safe on the roads, drink your coffee for 18 cents a cup and make sure to keep those 15-foot buffers.