Langdon, N.D., couple played the farming game the way Uncle Sam suggests and still got stung
October 24, 1999 / By Ryan Bakken / Grand Forks (N.D.) Herald
WALES, N.D. -- Raspberry bushes are in the garage waiting to be planted. Freshly cut fence posts are at the end of the driveway, awaiting their planting in the pasture. And fall tillage to prepare the soil for spring planting is nearly done.
Except for the sunflowers, the harvest is complete at North Outback, Terry and Janet Jacobson's 640-acre organic farm that is 16 miles west of Langdon. Rather, the fruit-bearing planting, the fencing project and the black soil point to the future.
Yes, despite the ongoing farm crisis, the Jacobsons will return for a 26th year of living off the land in 2000. But if the next decade is anything like the 1990s in its treatment of agriculture, they doubt they'll see the end of it as farmers.
"Some days I'm optimistic and some days I don't expect to be around long enough to sit under my (currently 5-foot-tall) oak trees," Janet says.
"We will make some progress in reducing our debt, so we'll survive another year financially. But I also know I'm running out of energy. You can fight these battles only so long."
Durum latest battle
The battle of North Outback survival has been waged almost annually in the last decade. First came years of drought, then the years of unrelenting rain that either reduced or wiped out yields and then the years of commodity prices that are at 20- and 30-year lows.
This season looked to be a stark exception to the Jacobson farm woes. Calving and lambing went well. The heavy spring and early-summer rains that hit almost everywhere else almost magically missed their land. Planting and tillage were done in timely fashion. The hay crop for their cows and sheep was plentiful. Janet's wool processing business partnership was up and running. And the crops looked good as August arrived.
The outlook couldn't have been more rosy.
There were a couple of minor setbacks. The yield on the companion crops of oats and peas was choked off by weeds. And the borage crop failed, but the acreage was small and the Jacobsons readily accepted the loss because they had erred in choosing when to harvest.
"I think we can use UPS instead of a truck to send the borage to market," says Janet, who often responds to setbacks with sharp-edged gallows humor.
But a good harvest turned into an average harvest the second week of October, when they heard their durum grain had been rejected by the organic milling company. It had not fulfilled the requirements of the contract signed in the spring.
The problem resulted because the durum had stood for three weeks around Labor Day because it was too damp to combine. Still, the durum looked good -- excellent color, no sprouting -- when it was harvested. So the rejection stunned the Jacobsons.
The durum was rejected because it had begun the process of sprouting, even if it was undetectable to the eye. That reduced its price from the contracted $6.50 a bushel to the $2.50 for feed quality.
The Jacobsons had spent a lot of money on federal crop insurance to reduce such risks. But they were stunned again to find out the insurance did not specifically list this problem, so the loss wasn't covered.
"We would have been better off if we had cut it and had it sprout laying there," Terry says. "Things like this force farmers to farm the wrong way, to try to collect insurance instead of collect a crop."
They had done what experts are advising farmers to do to reduce risk in these troubled times of agriculture -- work under contracts and buy insurance. But neither strategy worked in this case.
"We felt like the durum news pulled the rug out from under us," Janet says.
With 1,500 bushels, the lower durum grade cost the Jacobsons $6,000. That may not sound like much to Red River Valley farmers with operating loans of $500,000. But the Jacobsons work with a $30,000 operating loan, so it was a substantial hit.
Little room for error
In another conscious choice to reduce risk and stress, the Jacobsons also contracted their borage and sunflowers with AgGrow Oils, a farmer-owned oilseed processing plant in Carrington, N.D. But because of equipment, legal and financing problems, AgGrow has been shut down since February.
AgGrow still may fulfill its contract. And, if not, the Jacobsons likely can land a similar price for their sunflowers. But that would require finding a reputable buyer.
The problem with the durum illustrates farmers' biggest problem: There is little room for error with the current low prices. And with farming's dependence on weather, there is much that can go wrong.
The Jacobsons blame the low prices on the stranglehold that corporations have on agriculture, a stranglehold that the government assists.
"How can you savor a bumper crop when that's what it takes to break even," Terry says. "Before, if you had a bumper crop, you could get a new tractor."
"Or," Janet interjects, "a new washing machine."
So they wonder if selling commodities -- even niche commodities such as organic -- is the answer for small farms such as theirs, which grew 350 acres of crops this summer. Maybe their answer is going even smaller. Maybe they'll convert to a vegetable farm. Maybe they'll go into subsistence farming, growing just enough food for themselves and to market directly to customers, something they do with their beef cattle now.
Maybe they'll even go the route of their friends who plan to farm using horsepower only of the four-legged variety. They smile when talking about such prospects and frown when they talk about farming under the current agriculture economic system.
That's because their success this year was less about high production and successful marketing than it was about the settlement of the estate of Malvina Sorenson, Janet's mother who died in April. The Jacobsons were operating the farm under a contract for deed with Sorenson.
Since the Jacobsons were behind on payments, Sorenson's two other daughters could have foreclosed on them. Or, they could have received more money by selling or renting their share of the farm on the open market. But Janet's sisters felt the same as the Jacobsons -- that it's not all about money, that keeping the farm in the family is important for everyone, that Mom's wishes needed to be honored.
Not only was the farm put on firmer financial ground by the agreement with Janet's sisters, but the Jacobsons were greatly heartened by their attitudes.
"The settling of the estate is the big success of the summer," Janet says. "We're all still talking to each other. I've seen families that haven't spoken to each other after estates are settled. And that's so terribly sad."
Still vulnerable
The estate settlement and the profit-turning year -- if the sunflowers don't fall prey to snow -- might mean the Jacobsons can get conventional financing. They've been operating under loans by the Farm Service Agency, a federal agency that is the lender of last resort.
But they're not safe, by any means. A disastrous crop in 2000 would mean selling some farmland and becoming a hobby farm operation, they say.
They've talked often about what they'd do if they gave up farming. They might join the Peace Corps or Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA), which oldest daughter Britt is working for in St. Paul. But they would be gone only for a short while.
Their ties are too close to their farm home. And they're too attached to Langdon, a town whose future they fret about because of the farm crisis. They care enough to be active in their community, 16 miles away, as Janet is a member of the boards of the local hospital, local school foundation and the synod of their church.
The two 50-year-olds farm with machinery that's older than they are, including a 1945 tractor that has a name -- Emma. They keep sheep and cattle not only to provide diversity for the operation, but also for the atmosphere. And their motive for being organic is more as stewards of the land than it is for the premium prices.
So farming is much, much more than a job.
"There's a certain magic of putting seeds in the ground and watching them grow," Terry says. "Or new-born lambs popping out like popcorn. Or the immediate attachment a cow has for its new-born calf. Being involved in on-going life is something so intrinsically rewarding.
"But you have to make enough to survive, too."
Janet wonders if mere survival for another year is enough as she looks in the faces of fellow farmers at church, or at an auction sale or at the grocery store.
"They're tired and there are stress lines," she says. "They're supposed to be living life in the slow lane, walking the fence line and listening to the birds.
"But even if they have time to walk the fence line now, I'm not sure they hear the birds. Some have forgotten why they do it."
Editor's Note: Bakken can be reached at rbakken@gfherald.com.:
