<![CDATA[The Sugarbeet Grower Magazine

<![CDATA[The Sugarbeet Grower Magazine - Write Field]]>Wed, 19 Jun 2013 23:42:16 -0600Weebly<![CDATA[Write Field: Dreaming at the Dome]]>Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:00:28 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2013/04/write-field-dreaming-at-the-dome.htmlI went to the Beet Show
       In Fargo at the Dome.
It’s handy when it’s there
       And only twenty miles from home.

There were salesmen everywhere
       From all over the land.
Intent to sell equipment
       From every vendor stand.

The seed guys all are telling you
       Why theirs is the best.
With charts to show them at the top
       Of some specific test.

There were ways to kill the weeds
       And give your beets more health.
Solutions for your workload
       While adding to your wealth.

A way to keep your trucks from getting
       Stuck in harvest goo.
And Safety Pulls to get them out
       When they finally do.

A better way to change your oil,
       New wrenches for your shop.
Things to make life easier
       At every service stop.

Tracks and tires and tractors
       Lined up red and green and blue.
Sprayers, spreaders, planters,
       And beet carts were there too.

The harvesters, well let me say
    It’s gotten out of hand,
What you can spend to separate
       Your beet crop from the land.

Trucks so big and shiny
       With hoods all soaked in wax.
They’ll tell you it costs little
       When you figure in the tax.

But for my operation
This stuff costs way too much.
So just like when I’m at the beach
I’ll have to look, not touch.

David Kragnes farms near Felton, Minn. A former board chairman of American Crystal
Sugar Company, he currently serves on the board of directors of CoBank.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: Fashion Dunce]]>Wed, 20 Mar 2013 20:00:58 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2013/03/write-field-fashion-dunce.html At this time of year, I must attend a goodly number of meetings. Several of them are in nice, warm places where the dress code is listed as “business casual.” I lean toward the casual side; but while packing for the last trip my wife felt it was time to make a few suggestions about upgrading my wardrobe.

We had a little talk about
   New clothes the other day.
I guess we are still married,
   That’s the best that I can say.

It seems we feel quite different
   About fashion cost and style.
The discussion was the wildest one
   We’ve had in quite a while.

All the folks who know me
   Know my feelings about a tie.
A man should only wear one
   When you marry and you die.

The rest of life there in between
   I want to be in jeans.
I’m not being disrespectful;
   That’s not what it means.

If others choose a suit and tie
   To wear most every day,
I guess that should be just fine;
   It’s not for me to say.

It’s just that I quite prefer
   More room around my neck.
Clothes a little broken in
   Are the kind that I respect.

Just as my clothes start to fit
   There seems to be some doubt.
I think they’re getting comfortable;
   My wife thinks they’re worn out.

A little patch don’t bother me —
   Or even two or three,
As long as from the outside
    There’s no skin that you can see.

Reduce, reuse, recycle,
   That’s the fashion statement I like
More and more each time I shop
   And prices take a hike.

My wife and both my daughters
   Think I’m really quite a mess.
Did I get dressed up in the dark,
   Or did I only guess?

At which patterns and which colors
   Should be worn all at once.
I guess you could safely say
   I’m just a fashion dunce.

David Kragnes farms near Felton, Minn. A former board chairman of American Crystal Sugar Co., he currently serves on the board of directors of CoBank.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: It's All Downhill From Here]]>Mon, 25 Feb 2013 20:13:27 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2013/02/write-field-its-all-downhill-from-here.html I wanted so bad to talk about the fiscal cliff this month. I know you all want to hear more about the brilliant maneuvering that saved us all. But I just couldn’t find words that were descriptive enough and yet ones that Don, my editor, would let me print. Instead, let me share a family story where my two-year-old grandson learns what it appears those in Congress have not.

We took our grandkids skiing,
   Their first time on the hill.
We felt family time together
   Would be a Christmas thrill.

They learned to put their boots on,
   To snap the bindings tight.
Lined up on that bunny hill
   They made a glorious sight.

We bought them all a lesson,
   Bad habits not to start.
The need to learn, to stop and turn
   Is science and part art.

The oldest five are up the hill,
   But Cooper’s only two.
Standing there between us,
   Wondering what to do.

His Momma tried to teach him
   With his fancy harness rig.
When coming down the bunny,
   How to zag and when to zig.

But he found it more efficient
   To lay back in the straps.
Let Momma carry all the weight
   As they made their laps.

So now it’s left to Grandpa
   To take him up the hill,
To try to teach him how to turn
   Without a big bad spill.

With Grandma on the other side,
   We made it to the top.
When he tried to lay back now,
   I let him fall down — plop!

He just lay there on his back,
   Staring at the sky,
With a look upon his face
   As if to wonder why.

No one else had carried him,
   Oh, sure this day was fun.
But wouldn’t it be easier
   If all the work was done?

It only took one more time
   Of falling on his back,
To focus him on standing up
   And cruising down the track.

He’s not ready yet for cliffs,
   But he’ll be hard to beat.
Because he’s learned one simple thing:
   Stand on your own two feet.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: Relax & Count Blessings]]>Thu, 24 Jan 2013 20:46:21 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2013/01/write-field-relax-count-blessings.html I hope you had a good harvest season. In general, it was a pretty good beet crop nationwide. Take some time now to celebrate with family and friends.

Maybe it’s caused by the season,
    But it feels awfully good to be me,
With a grandchild sitting here on my lap
   And one perched there on each knee.

I’m reading the whole Christmas story
   To children who’ve heard it before.
But we still enjoy the retelling,
   So I’m going to read it once more.

The holiday lights are all shining,
   There’s plenty of wood for the fire.
The house smells of Christmas baking,
   Our spirits just couldn’t be higher.

The harvest was pretty successful.
   I’m done buying and selling this year.
Most of the bookwork is already done,
   And next week my schedule is clear.

My mother is off at my sister’s,
   No snow is piled up in the drive.
So my obligations are pretty darn low,
   And it’s fun just being alive.

So ’til the first week of next year
   When reality gives me a slap,
I’ll just forget about cleaning the shop,
   And lay down for a long winter’s nap.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: A Wet One]]>Sun, 06 Jan 2013 18:09:34 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2013/01/write-field-a-wet-one.html As most of you may have heard by now, it was pretty wet in the northern end of the Red River Valley this fall.

To say that this fall’s harvest
   Was quite a bit too wet
Would be an understatement,
   As bad as you can get.

We splashed around in water,
   We pulled the trucks through muck.
We spent so much time in the swamp
   I felt just like a duck.

I needed someone new this year
   To drive one of my trucks.
I put an ad into The Forum;
   It cost me just three bucks.

To hire a new man in the fall
   Is always pretty tough.
You never know if training
Will be smooth or pretty rough.

And then you always wonder,
   Will the new guy bring good luck?
Or will it seem the mud looks for
   The new guy to get stuck?

This fall a guy named Noah
   Responded to my ad.
Said he was bright and willing
   To do any job I had.

He showed up there in my yard,
   A large man with a beard.
I asked him where he got his name,
It seemed a little weird.

He said he got that nickname
   When he was only two,
And playing in the water
   Was his favorite thing to do.

He’s never overcome it,
   Now he loves to work on boats.
Or mess around the shoreline
   With anything that floats.

Quick of mind and quick of hand,
   And he was very nice.
He learned it all the first time through;
   I never showed him twice.

He told us that he could work
   Forty days and forty nights.
After that he’d have to leave,
   His schedule was too tight.

Something seemed a little strange,
   Coincidence or not.
Ever since the new guy came,
   It rained an awful lot.

The guys made jokes about Noah
   At first behind his back.
I said the weather’s not his fault,
   Give the guy some slack.

Beet season dragged so very long,
   We watched the rain come down.
We worked to get the harvest done,
   We tried hard not to drown.

Your mind can do some strange things
   Working under that grey sky.
When weather turns against you
   You start to wonder why.

I’m not a superstitious man,
   But it must be more than luck.
Noah was the only driver
   Who never did get stuck.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: Wherefore Art Thou?]]>Tue, 07 Aug 2012 21:23:42 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2012/08/write-field-wherefore-art-thou.htmlI lost a pair of pliers
Again — again today.
How can something without legs
So easily go astray?

I put them in my pocket
   This morning in the shop.
I didn’t take them out today,
   I didn’t hear them drop.

But gone they are without a trace,
   My pocket’s hanging light.
I look around upon the ground,
   They are nowhere in sight.

With all the many pairs of pliers
   I’ve bought throughout the years,
Losing yet another pair
   Could almost bring me tears.

What with the little farm I farm,
   I ask how could there not
Be any place without a pliers
   Stacked upon that spot?

There should be an even coat
   Of pliers across the land,
So no matter where I am
One should be at hand.

Perhaps a string around my neck
   Would help me keep a pair,
Just like an aging teacher keeps
   Her glasses hanging there.

Lots of truckers seem to have
   Their wallet on a chain.
A pliers tangled in the loops
   Just might be a pain.

So the key is finding where
   They all have gone to hide.
My wife says she has washed a few
   When work pants come inside.

Maybe she is saving them
   In a private stash,
Like a secret IRA
   She’ll someday turn to cash.

More likely I will find a sight
   To make me stand and gape.
A stack of pliers beyond count,
   Each with a measuring tape.

]]><![CDATA[Write Field: And Which Is Illusion?]]>Fri, 04 May 2012 19:14:52 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2012/05/write-field-and-which-is-illusion.html Those of you about my age may remember the title of this piece as the last line from the poem that comes at the end of the Moody Blues song, “Nights In White Satin.” For several varied reasons, that line has repeatedly come back to my head this winter.

    In February my wife and I took the grandkids to Disney World. At Disney they go to great lengths to make things look real. All cast members must remain in costume at all times and never be seen out of character. Yet with all their focus on the appearance of reality, we have come to expect complete fantasy. So much so that when anyone wants to describe a person or idea as completely without basis in fact, they are described as being from Disneyland. Illusion has become reality.
    In March I attended a training class in San Antonio. Having dinner outside along the River Walk, I realized I was sitting next to what had started as a stream in the area but was now a concrete ditch with well-tended plants that were kept up at great expense so tourists could eat “genuine” Mexican food while watching “nature.” And which is illusion?
    At the River Walk, seated at a nearby table, four young girls sat without speaking for the whole time it took to get their food, as they feverishly typed on their phones — presumably, communicating with their friends. And which is illusion?
    At the American Sugarbeet Growers Association meeting this winter, there was much discussion about the “Farm Bill” — a bill before Congress in which 80% of the money spent never sees a farmer.   At what point will it be relabeled “The Food Stamp Bill?”
    Am I wrong in thinking, if this were a canned food product, the USDA would not allow it to be so misleadingly labeled? Then again, expecting anything from Washington in an election year that isn’t a well-crafted illusion shows I may have spent too much time in Disney World.
    “And just what the truth is I can’t say anymore” seems to be the appropriate verse from the song.
    I hope you have a great summer.

]]><![CDATA[On The Road Again]]>Wed, 07 Mar 2012 14:59:37 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2012/03/on-the-road-again.html Peggy and I attended the ASGA annual meeting in Orlando in February. Driving there isn’t much like driving back home in Felton.

We did a little traveling,
   We bought a GPS.
Old-fashioned maps aren’t good enough,
   At least that’s what I guess.

Instead of ink and paper,
   It’s electrons from the air,
That tell us to turn right or left
   To get us over there.

“Turn left in seven hundred feet,”
   The voice says from the dash.
Then we must quickly think about
Which pedal we should mash.

To jump in front or sneak behind
   The car that’s in our way,
There’s room between those two big trucks;
   I think we’ll be OK.

We make the corner just in time,
The light is barely pink.
We wait with bated breath as Garmin
   Takes a pause to think.

The voice that gives instructions
   Has no malice and no scorn.
But I couldn’t hear it
O’er the honking of that horn.

It seems the guy behind us
   Has a slightly different thought,
Just which part of this highway
   The tax he paid has bought.

The voice comes on and tells me
   The next turn we will need.
I settle in the center lane
   At the posted speed.

I really thought the number
   In the white sign on the post
Told the drivers on the road
   The speed that is the most.

But on this road, at this time,
   There seems a natural flow.
I see a car back in my mirror,
   Then round me it will go.

The passing drivers frown at me
   As if they want to say,
“You have no business being here
   Upon this road today.”

And while it’s fun to travel
   And ’round this country roam,
I start to wish that I could press
   The icon that’s marked Home.

]]><![CDATA[Ode to the Handyman Jack]]>Sat, 11 Feb 2012 21:02:00 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2012/02/ode-to-the-handyman-jack.htmlI’ve fixed up almost everything
This winter in my shop.
I’ve repaired and rebearinged
From the bottom to the top.

The tractors are back in the shed
     With fresh wax on the hood.
All in all, my schedule’s really
    Looking pretty good.

I ordered all my chemicals.
    I prebought all my seed.
I even made a list to check off
    All that I would need.

But there was a crucial error
    On the list up near the top.
Should have been extensive help
    For that wreck that’s in my shop.

Leaning up behind the door
    Cloaked in rust and dirt,
Stands that evil farm contraption,
    Intent to make thumbs hurt.

That vicious one-legged monster,
    That the devil built in rage —
And turned loose on farmers,
    Their religion for to gauge.

This ungainly apparition
    Can break your jaw or wrist,
Crush kneecaps into powder
    Or give your back a twist.

I know all farmers have one,
    But they’ll hide it if they can.
By now you must have guessed it:
    I mean their Handyman.

They’re mostly bent and rusty,
    But they hardly ever die.
Though I mowed ours with the
Bushhog once
    And made my father cry.

I think that is the only time
    I’ve seen one bought brand new.
But they stock them at the farm store,
    So they must sell at least a few.

Most every one I’ve ever seen
    Lay in a pickup bed,
’Tween the tow chains and tire iron,
    Like road kill you found dead.

Just waiting there riding ’round,
    In its sweet repose.
’Til it gets to drop some-something
    On some-someone’s toes.

I must tell you before I go,
    It shook me to my socks:
I saw a mounted Handyman
    On a pickup’s new toolbox.

It was painted up to match
   The pickup’s two-tone blue.
The only thing I can say:
That guy needs more to do.

]]><![CDATA[Where Has Robert Gone?]]>Fri, 06 Jan 2012 15:09:13 GMThttp://www.sugarpub.com/9/post/2012/01/where-has-robert-gone.htmlThis is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar.

I went to my grandson’s kindergarten Christmas concert. They handed out programs with all the names of his classmates. My confusion was great. I must be older than I think. . . .
Where have all the Roberts gone?

I know lots of Roberts
    And a couple guys called Bob.
They’re mostly good guys,
    Thoughtful, kind — not a single slob.

They wear that name with honor,
       Try not to bring it shame.
When they are done, anyone
       Could proudly wear the same.

Stop by a kindergarten,
       You’ll not find a single Bob.
And asking for a Robert?
       Well, that’s a hopeless job.

There are some names to call your child
       That wouldn’t be so kind.
When I think of names with baggage
   Well, Adolph comes to mind.

Judas never caught on
    For reasons understood.
Initials that make O.J. —
       That might not be so good.

There are lots of good ones
    A parent could employ.
And when a stranger heard it
       They’d know it’s a girl or boy.

I meet a parent with a child
       Dressed up in light green mint.
I ask its name; they tell me.
       I still don’t have a hint.

Its gender should not matter.
       Its parents are quite proud.
And what I think about their choice
       I do not say out loud.

But why must names appear to be
       A scrabble game gone bad?
With spelling that breaks all the rules
    That spelling ever had.

There are things you should consider
       Besides its ease to spell.
A parent really should test out
       How it sounds to yell.

When you’re at a ball game
       Third row from the top,
Your child should have the kind of name
       That really has a pop.

Nancy, Roger, Jane or Jim —
       All choices that are wise.
And sprinkle in a David.
    (They’re really special guys.)

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