The first story I penned for Indiana Prairie Farmer began something like this: “My father-in-law uses no ‘o’ in his pronouncement of the word ‘window’; it is simply ‘winder.’” I went on to talk about the view from our windows and perspectives on life. It’s always been about life when I write here. Whether through tears from sorrow or an ache in the side from laughing, it was meant to take your mind off wobbly grain prices or fatigue that was settling into your body and mind.

I’ve meandered through memories of old dogs, county fairs, frozen ponds, hot days spent floating around on a tractor innertube, the absurdities that have come from the mouths of those who don’t know squat about agriculture, and my loving and hardworking parents.

I’ve bragged on my grandchildren. Admit it; you’d do it too, if given the opportunity. I’ve humored my way through word pictures when my husband gave me good material, and tiptoed through the topic of suicide and addictions and hard choices — even when it hit painfully close to home.

More than anything, I have wanted to be a megaphone that proclaimed loud and clear that your way of life and your life’s work are deeply appreciated.

A season spent interviewing and writing about young famers unearthed a promising future. My father’s dying wish and the incredible hospitality that was bestowed upon us as we toured farms in the Southern U.S. was documented here and forever etched in my bank of precious memories.

With a knot in my stomach, I wrote about acres devastated by floods or scorched from heat. I saw courage in those of you who faced mountains — cancer, financial fallout, farm accidents — yet emerged with remarkable grace and fortitude.

It’s going to be a while before I hit the “send” button again for Tom Bechman, the editor of this fine magazine, but I remain extremely grateful for the day, over 20 years ago, when he asked me for some stories, which turned into a regular column.

Timeout

Currently, my keyboard is committed to a book project, as well as a follow-up on a book that was just released: “Dead Man Walking: A Story of Hope and Encouragement” — available on Amazon soon, if you have any interest.

I have lost track of how many studies, blogs, articles and such I’ve written for different sources over the years. One thing is certain though: Every word I wrote here came from the deepest fiber of my being. Agriculture for me, like you, is a way of life. It is from that perspective, or from that “winder,” as my dear father-in-law would have said, that we see the world.

Most likely, I’ve not added to the wisdom found underneath hats splattered with seed company logos. But maybe eyes that are set within ravines of sun-weathered skin closed as you related, if even for a moment, to my words. I see you there, my farmer friend, through the lens of a farmer. I always have, always will, and I will always be rooting for you.

McClain writes from Greenwood, Ind.