Three months, three weeks, and three days. That's the gestational period for the average sow. Three months. That's the amount of time it takes to raise a pig to 40 pounds so it's ready for market. Coincidentally, it's also the length of summer break.

 

The summer of 1976 I arrived at my grandfather's farm in rural Iowa fresh off a Greyhound bus. Looking forward to a summer away from Houston, I breathed in the familiar scents of diesel fuel, fresh-cut alfalfa, and my grandmother's cinnamon rolls. My home away from home.

 

Every day on the farm unfolds with a rhythm both familiar and unexpected—rise with the sun, feed the animals, tend the crops, bale the hay, mend the fencing. Every day hums a familiar tune, yet presents fresh challenges, as if the farm itself has its own agenda, always testing the hands that nurture it.

 

"Welcome back, Dan," my grandfather said, throwing my travel duffel into the truck as we headed from the country road up to the house. At 76 years old, he was as strong as ever, but a lifetime of farming was starting to take its toll. His hair was transitioning from gray to white. The creases on his face, tanned by years in the sun, were getting deeper. His hands were calloused and arthritic from years of use.

 

Though he might call himself "retired," a farmer never really leaves his land. Like a marriage, it's a bond that endures a lifetime—a partnership shaped by soil and seasons. Together, my grandfather and the farm have weathered the dust bowls of the Great Depression, endured years of disappointing harvests, and sometimes faced winters when the food stores grew thin. The land held his story, a testament to his resilience.

 

We walked up to the large farmhouse, which had been recently renovated. It stood looking out over acres of land and a small town, a tribute to a lifetime of hard work. The house was one of the few things my grandfather spent his hard-earned money maintaining. The rest of the money went back into the land or investing in stocks and items to ensure the longevity of the farm, his most precious asset.

 

"I have a surprise for you," he said as we made a detour to the livestock barns. He led me to the farrowing house where the pigs were housed. There were at least a dozen very pregnant sows lying in the straw.

 

"See there. Sixteen sows. They are your responsibility this summer," he said. "I am not going to pay you a dime in wages, but I am going to let you borrow these sows. They will start littering over the next few days and your job will be to get the pigs ready for market by the end of the summer."

 

No wage? The idea was foreign to me.

 

"You are responsible for caring for the sows and raising the litters," he continued, "providing them with water, straw, protein, feed, shots, and anything else they need to get ready for market. The goal will be to get them to 40 pounds. That's the weight the big growers are looking for in their feeder pigs. Then at the end of the summer whatever the proceeds are from their sale, less the costs of caring for them, will be yours to keep. That'll be your wage for the summer."

 

I didn't hesitate. I couldn't. One didn't argue with my grandfather. Plus, there was something about trusting me to care for the feeder pigs that gave me a boost of confidence. He was giving me a real stake in the farm—ownership.

 

As we left the barn, I looked back at the sows—my source of income for the summer. We walked to the house where my grandmother was making fresh bread. I went to the refrigerator for a drink, grabbing a prune juice jar filled with water. It was sitting next to old Cool-Whip containers and other items, none of which contained their advertised fare—a habit left over from another era when excess was avoided. No Tupperware or bottled water here. Even if the family had central air—like they did—no one turned it on because everyone could just as easily sleep in the cool basement, even in a hot Iowa summer.

 

Mornings on the farm came quickly. I woke before the sun and got to work. My first task was to check on the pregnant sows and then move on to the rest of my chores. Every day was a repeat of the last—a cycle of feeding, cleaning, checking, mending—until my focus shifted to caring for the tiny new pigs.

 

They grew quickly—from two pounds to 10 pounds to 30 pounds. I told myself not to get attached; I couldn't. They were a means to an end. Commodities.

 

By the end of the summer, my pigs were ready. Forty pounds, each one. It was time to see if the work I had invested would pay off. My grandfather agreed to take me to the auction. He was as eager as I was, though he said little on the way. We hitched a trailer to his ever-reliable Chevy and made the drive down the country road toward the auction barn.

 

"If there is one thing I've learned in life," he began, "it's that you always need something making you money while you sleep. You'll never get rich working for a wage alone." I glanced over at him, not fully understanding, though I knew the words came from a place of wisdom.

My grandfather was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his words carried weight. "Dan, education is the best investment you can make. The only thing you can count on in life is hard work, perseverance, and a little luck."

I internalized these words, understanding that they had meaning beyond the immediate. He'd lived a life full of hard lessons learned without a college degree. He wasn't just talking about farming. He was talking about life.

 

"You might not have been getting paid daily for your work this summer," he continued, "but your pigs worked for you. A sow is an asset. And when she has a litter, those pigs are the return on that investment. The more they grow, the more valuable they become. They work for you, even when you're working just as hard."

At the auction barn, the bidding was fierce. I watched, heart in my throat, brimming with pride, as my pigs were sold one by one. At the end of the day, after expenses were deducted, the total was a whopping $5,000—more than double what I made working on the farm each of the previous five summers.

 

"Do you understand now, Dan?" my grandfather asked. I did. More than I could say.