What I learned on the farm — and what I’m still trying to pass along.
Last week, I had an amazing conversation with someone from Brownsville who’s been working to make a difference in her community. At one point, she shared a bit about her family’s multi-generational homestead, a place that had been in her family for a very long time. Listening to her talk about her family's land took me back to our family farm in Wisconsin.
Our farm had spanned the family for +five generations. My grandfather lived there all his life, and my mom lived there up until she got married. When I was a kid, we’d be there most weekends. There were maybe four or five other farms spread out along that mile stretch of Rockfield Road, but somehow, it never felt lonely.
People stopped by to visit almost every day. A neighbor checking in, sharing the latest news, dropping off something they borrowed (or hoping to borrow something from “the shed”), or showing up with something tasty from their own kitchen/garden. My grandparents would sit on the porch, and before long, the sound of tires on gravel meant company arrived.
Some of my fondest memories are Sunday afternoons after church, sitting on the unnaturally-green astroturf covered porch, eating peas picked from the garden (at the end of summer), and waiting to see who might swing by. We’d wait for my grandfather to come back with the hot ham and rolls (after taking the “scenic route”), then gather around the farmhouse table, debating which was the better mayo to use and the appropriate application of horseradish.
At some point, my grandfather made what I assume was a tough decision to stop milking cows. He began renting out parts of the land to other farmers while taking a steady job at the local paper cup factory in town. To this day, I still remember the stacks of slightly off-center and misprinted paper cups he’d bring home. Every family gathering featured a random assortment of them; and my mom is still trying to get the last few boxes out of her attic.
By the time I was running around the farm, it had become a poultry operation. Each spring, my grandfather would bring home hundreds of chicks to raise through the summer, eventually processing them in the fall. I remember late nights helping round up the chickens, the glow of the barn light, the excitement of staying up past bedtime, then sitting in the bench seat of the pickup truck between my dad and grandfather, the cab filled with heavy cigar smoke. Those moments are forever etched in my memory. My brief but vivid taste of “farm life”.
My grandparents, Willie and Marion, were known for having the biggest, best chickens around. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work when they retired (and for everyone in the family that chipped in). It taught me that even when circumstances change, the values stay the same: pride in what you do, care for what you raise, and gratitude for the people who share it with you.
Even as a kid doing part-time stints on the farm, those experiences shaped what I thought the American Dream was going to be for me. I didn’t have the words for it then, but in my mind, owning a BIG piece of land; with woods, a pond, maybe a big yard, a place where you could spread out, do your own thing, and feel a little freedom was the way to go. Even though we lived a few miles away in Slinger, "a couple towns over", the farm always felt like our second home.
Later, when I went to college and got my first place in downtown Milwaukee, my view started to change. I realized I also loved being around people. The energy of the city, the sense of community, the constant movement and conversation. I could still get my fix of open space by heading out for a long run or driving back home, but I was beginning to understand that belonging also came from people just as much as from place. Still, I missed the farmstead, especially after my grandfather passed and we had to sell.
When I moved to Texas, most of our time was spent inside the Austin bubble: downtown life, work, city routines, bars, restaurants, social affairs... But over the past couple of years, with family life, that’s changed. We’ve been getting out more, seeing more of Texas, and rediscovering a bit more on what it means to be outdoors and closer to the land.
A few years ago, we joined our local Cub Scout pack, and through those campouts, I’ve had the chance to experience some of the incredible terrain around Central Texas. This past weekend was especially meaningful; the first time Miles (my six-year-old) came along with Teeny and me to camp with the Scouts. This was our first time visiting Enchanted Rock and exploring the area north of Fredericksburg (including a few photos below).
On the drive out there, watching the Hill Country roll by, the wide skies, the pastures stretching toward the horizon, the rows of fences ;I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. The landscape looked different, sure: drier, tougher, dotted with live oaks instead of evergreens. But there was something familiar in the rhythm of it, those quiet stretches of road, the sense of space, the way the light hit the land. For a moment, it reminded me of Wisconsin; of my grandfather’s fields and that same deep connection between land, family, and work.
The Hill Country is beautiful: rolling rock hills, scattered oaks, and for Texas, surprisingly lush. But it’s different from the soft green farmlands of Wisconsin, the thick fields and evergreens, the cool air, the quiet hum of summer. Texas feels tougher, more rugged, a little wilder and maybe a little more frontier.
As I’ve learned more about Texas history, its farms, ranches, and homesteads; I’ve started to see the connection. Generations working the land. Families adapting to change. The constant balance between progress and preservation. The work here might be harsher, the climate less forgiving, but the values run deep, hard work, resilience, and pride in what you build with your own hands.
And just like the farms I grew up around in Wisconsin, Texas homesteads and ranches are steeped in history, tradition, and pride; the kind that’s passed down from generation to generation. Whether it’s dairy barns or cattle pastures, cornfields or mesquite, that same spirit of stewardship ties both places together.
That spirit of showing up for your neighbors, of lending a hand before asking which side they’re on, is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It’s one of the core values that’s kept me inspired by some of the work and messaging at the Texas Forward Party. Having grace and tolerance. Starting with your community. Or what I affectionately now internalized as “Love Your Neighbor.”
I still believe, regardless of the type of plot you own or rent, that most people want the same thing: strong communities, honest leaders, and neighbors who look out for one another. Our future depends on how well we work together, even when we don’t agree. It’s not about left or right. It’s about fixing what’s broken by rebuilding trust, one community, one neighbor, one fence line at a time.
These days, I live about a mile from downtown Austin. It’s a far cry from the open fields around the family farm, but this past spring, I found myself trying to bring a little of that life back home. My daughter, who’s completely obsessed with birds, inspired me to build a small backyard garden and what we affectionately call our “fargen” (part farm, part garden - named by an eight year old).
It’s our little backyard oasis, with plants, flowers, and room for about twenty quail. It's not the kind of farm that could hold hundreds of chickens and turkeys, but it’s enough to remind me of where I came from and to give my kids a taste of that same connection to "farm life", I find myself still cherishing.
And when I’m out there watering plants, checking the quail, or just watching my kids muck around, it's starting to feel a little more like my childhood days on the farm.
Hard work. Shared purpose. Love your neighbor.
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