Back in September, Bob Kuntz, the operator I reach out to when I need some sound advice, called to break the news. After farming multiple tracts of my family’s land for nearly three decades, this harvest would be his last. Bob was planning to retire.

“It’s time,” he told me, his voice carrying an assurance that comes from thinking long and hard about a decision. Still, I could sense his sadness as he explained why he needed to turn his attention elsewhere. Although I knew Bob might retire someday, I wasn’t prepared for the gut punch I felt when that day arrived.

When I hear news of next-generation off-farm heirs letting longtime operators go, sometimes mailing them their walking papers without so much as a phone call or a note of thanks, I’m baffled. Folks like Bob play an integral role in the success of an operation. They’re family.

Bob was one of the first people I called when my dad passed away in 2018. Amid grief, he helped me navigate purchasing contracts, government program deadlines, and challenges big and small that emerge in every operation. He became my go-to person for asking what Dad would have done if he were still here, standing in my shoes.

FINAL ROUND: Bob Kuntz makes his last pass on my family’s farmland after years of farming our ground.

Every time I hear a train whistle, I think of Bob’s ringtone. When we first started working together, I looked up to see where the train was when Bob had an incoming call. With no engine on the horizon, I’d see Bob walking my way, dressed in bibs and a farmer’s cap, a wide smile stretching across his face.

Related:Not every off-farm heir’s journey is easy

A seat together

While there’s a lot of talk about the material assets off-farm heirs assume from previous generations, I value deeply the people and places that remind me of the legacy I’m carrying on. I feel fortunate to have inherited the seat next to Bob on the combine as he rolled through our fields.

Looking out over the incoming bounty, I’d be reminded of a bond forged long ago when Dad occupied the same seat. Now, as then, Bob and I conversed about grain prices and wet weather and land sales. We caught up on our kids (and for Bob, the grandkids) and the news around town.

Our chats inevitably turned to reminiscing about earlier days, like when Dad told Bob he could have my grandmother’s garage for his asparagus business if he could move it to his house. Sure enough, Dad and I peered out the family room window as Bob backed a trailer up to the one-car garage, hoisted it off the foundation, and drove away.

I’ll miss working with Bob, even though I know I’ll still see him sitting in a pew at church or helping out in the fields during my visits home. But it won’t be the same. His well-deserved retirement from farming signals the end of an era, the last of the guys Dad brought onboard when he retired.

Bob exemplifies what it means to be a good farmer and a good friend. Now that he’s stepping down, what remains is the memory of how often he stepped up.