Summer goes fast, especially with kids. The kids are off school, the days are long, and the temptation to spend big on activities is everywhere. Big trips can be wonderful, but they’re not the only way to give kids a great summer. Some of the best memories don’t require plane tickets, pricey passes, or a suitcase—just a little creativity, some local resources, and a willingness to enjoy what you already have.
Here are a few ways to save money while still having a genuinely fun summer with your kids.
Turn Your Yard Into “Casa de Backyarda”
You don’t need a fancy inflatable water park to make the backyard magical. Sometimes all it takes is a hose and a simple sprinkler.
In our house, we call it “Casa de Backyarda.” When the weather heats up, we:
Set up a basic sprinkler in the yard.
Add a few extras—a plastic kiddie pool, buckets, or cups for pouring water.
Let the kids run, jump, and invent their own games.
Pair it with popsicles, bubbles, a simple little picnic on a blanket, or a “no shoes” rule, and suddenly you’ve got a full afternoon of fun for the cost of water and whatever you already own. It’s low-stress, low-prep, and high joy.
Make the Most of Your Local Library
Your local library can be a quiet powerhouse for summer fun and savings. Many libraries offer far more than books and story time.
Depending on your library system, you may find:
Passes you can borrow for local pools, museums, zoos, and other attractions.
Discounts on souvenirs or gift shop purchases at partner locations.
Free or reduced parking when you visit certain spots with a library‑issued pass.
Summer reading programs with small rewards, events, and special activity days.
Free equipment rentals (such as Bluetooth speakers) which really amp up the vibe of any activity.
Not every library has every perk, but it’s worth checking what your local system offers—you might be surprised. A simple habit: before you buy tickets or plan an outing, check what your library offers. Sometimes all it takes is a library card and a bit of planning ahead to turn a “maybe too expensive” activity into something doable.
Camping as a Main Summer Trip
You don’t have to fly across the country to have a memorable family vacation. A simple camping trip can be both an adventure and a major cost saver.
When camping is your main trip for the summer, you often get to:
Save on lodging. Campsites are usually much cheaper than hotels or rentals.
Spend more time outdoors—hiking, swimming, stargazing, cooking over a fire.
Build traditions around campfire stories, card games, and simple meals.
Camping can be as rustic or “soft” as your family needs—anything from tent camping at a state park to renting a small cabin or camper. Either way, the focus shifts from expensive attractions to shared experiences: setting up camp together, exploring trails, and unplugging a bit from screens.
Lean Into “Small Fun” That Adds Up
Kids often remember the small, repeated joys more than the one big, expensive outing. A few “small fun” ideas that don’t cost much:
Weekly library visits with a special snack afterward.
Neighborhood walks or bike rides with a stop at a playground.
Walking a storybook trail at a local park.
Firefly chasing in the backyard.
Living room movie nights with blankets and popcorn.
Simple crafts using what you already have—chalk, cardboard, paints.
You don’t have to fill every day with something elaborate. A few steady, simple traditions can carry a lot of weight over a whole summer.
A Gentle Reminder for Summer Parents
It’s easy to feel pressure to do “everything” in the summer—big trips, fancy outings, perfect memories. But your kids don’t need perfection. They need you, some time, and a few simple experiences to hang onto.
A sprinkler in the yard. A borrowed library pass. A weekend camping trip instead of a hotel. A stack of books and a bowl of popcorn. Those can be enough.
If you have a favorite low‑cost summer tradition, I’d love to hear: what’s one simple thing your family does every year that makes summer feel special without stretching the budget?
If this post gave you a few ideas or reminded you of the simple things you already love, would you share it with another parent or caregiver? Your shares and comments help these budget friendly ideas reach families who might need them.
Somehow, it’s already early July. How is your garden doing?
We’re in Zone 4B, and in late May I shared what we planted in our garden this year. In this post, I’m expanding on that first update and sharing how things are going now. How much work have we done so far? What veggies have we harvested already (spoiler: not too many yet, but that’s changing fast!)?
It’s been a fairly wet season so far (with plenty of tornado warnings), which has meant we haven’t had to start watering yet. I expect that to change as July continues and we slide into our usual hotter, drier stretch.
Think of this as a walk-through of our garden rows, plus a few notes on what’s working, what isn’t, and what we’ve noticed already this year.
Strawberries: The Semi-Permanent Front Row
The first two rows of our garden are dedicated to strawberries. This is a semi-permanent location for them. Back in April, we transplanted the plants, and since then we’ve pinched off the blossoms and weeded the rows.
We’ve been pinching blossoms to allow the plants to focus more on strong root and leaf growth, but have recently stopped. We’ve harvested a grand total of two berries so far (and they’re delicious!). Besides the berries, the plants themselves have sent off large shoots that re‑root themselves. We’ve been working to direct those so they don’t take over the middle of the row.
Root Vegetables: Fresh Salads Now, Storage Roots Later
The next rows are dedicated to root vegetables and salad greens. These rows have shown a rapid return, with us harvesting many salads’ worth of lettuce and spinach (my salad spinner is working overtime!), and we’ve finished harvesting radishes.
Other veggie updates:
Parsnips: They didn’t come up well, so we replanted a couple of weeks ago.
Carrots: They’re coming up great, and we hope to harvest our first fresh carrots (nature’s candy) within the next couple of weeks. My son cannot wait.
Beets: We hope to harvest these soon too.
Red and Yellow Onions
After the root bed come two full rows of onions—both red and yellow.
Our transplanted yellow onions have been growing vigorously; they are now about the size of baseballs. Our red onions are a little further behind, but are still quite healthy.
We’ve started harvesting some of the larger yellow onions. Fresh onions from the garden are divine!
Peas: Kid-Favorite Garden Candy
Our peas are starting to blossom, which means any week now they’ll begin producing. The kids think of them as garden candy, and eat them straight from the vine.
Cucumbers in the Middle (On Purpose) + Tomatoes and Peppers
The cucumbers are coming up well and are starting to blossom. We’ll start getting cucumbers in just a couple of weeks. We planted them in the middle of the garden on purpose, where they’re easy to water and can climb on a trellis without taking over the edges.
I did see my first cucumber beetles this week. Right now I’m just keeping a close eye on them; if anyone has favorite ways to manage cucumber beetles organically, I’d love to hear your advice.
We’ve actually started harvesting some peppers already—delicious!
We have tiny Roma tomatoes on the vine that are steadily getting bigger, and some Early Girls. I expect to get a couple of Early Girls in a couple of weeks, then the Romas and Mortgage Lifters by the end of July into early August.
Cruciferous Row: Cauliflower, Kale, Broccoli, and Brussels Sprouts
I’ve harvested my first kale and made my first batch of Zuppa Toscana. It was lovely—though maybe not the best meal to eat on a 90‑degree day, haha.
Cauliflower, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts haven’t produced yet. I expect the broccoli to start producing within the next couple of weeks. The Brussels sprouts will likely be ready in about 2–3 months (they have a long growing period).
Cabbage, Bok Choy, and Kohlrabi
The next row is a mix of:
Cabbage: Destined for sauerkraut, boiled cabbage, and coleslaw. Not ready yet, but I expect smaller heads to be ready in about a month.
Bok choy: We harvested our first head, and it was delicious in our beef stir fry.
Kohlrabi: The “heads” are starting to form (they look like a little bulb with leafy hair coming out).
Summer Squash, Rutabagas, and a Few Flowers
In the back corner of the garden, we planted summer squash—three hills of it.
In my unsolicited opinion, three hills is about two hills too many. If you’ve ever been buried in zucchini or summer squash, you know exactly what I mean. We also have several volunteer squash plants coming up in random spots throughout the garden. If a volunteer squash plant pops up in a really inconvenient spot (where it will interfere with my favorite veggies), I pull it out.
The rest of that row holds garlic and rutabagas:
We plan to harvest the four bulbs of garlic within the next couple of weeks.
The interplanted rutabagas will begin to be harvested in about a week or two.
We’ve also tucked marigolds into the garden, which I love both for their pest‑control benefits and because they’re simply beautiful. On top of that, we have a lot of volunteer sunflowers coming up throughout the garden—they add a bit of cheer and should make the bees happy later in the season.
Sweet Corn and Cantaloupe at the Front
The front of the garden holds our sweet corn patch. It’s doing well so far. They always say corn is doing well if it’s “knee high by the Fourth of July,” and this year it’s about waist high (I’m writing this on the Fourth). I suspect we will be battling the raccoons and possums for the crop later in the season, and I hope we win at least some this time!
The cantaloupe patch is on the other side. So far, so good—the plants are still small, but they grow fast this time of year. I expect to harvest our first cantaloupes in about a month.
How Much Weeding We’ve Done (So Far)
We weed the garden the most at the beginning of the garden season. My dad has always said, “You win or lose the battle with weeds in the month of June,” and I wholeheartedly agree.
If you catch them early and don’t let them go to seed, there are fewer by the end of the year (although you still have to do maintenance weeding after that). In June, my husband and I have spent an average of 3–4 hours per week on weeding. As the weather gets drier and the plants start to shade out more of the garden, I expect that time to be drastically reduced, down to about an hour per week.
I’ll shift that “extra” time to harvesting and preservation as the season continues. Stay tuned for all the ways I like to preserve garden‑fresh veggies!
Potatoes, Pumpkins, and Future Plans
Beyond the main garden rows, we have two additional patches:
The potato patch has been hilled, and we’re starting to find the dastardly potato bugs (both the babies and the adults). For now we’re picking them off by hand and doing our best to stay ahead of them.
Behind our barn, we have established a pumpkin patch, and I’m already picturing fall—whether that means jack‑o’‑lanterns, pies, or both.
So far, I don’t have big “lessons learned” to share this season. I’m sure they’re coming as the summer unfolds, but right now we’re mostly observing, adjusting as needed, and enjoying the early harvests.
That’s where things stand in our Zone 4B garden this early July.
Garden produce starting to come in?
My free Grow What You’ll Use planner helps you decide what to eat fresh, freeze, dehydrate, store, share, or use up this week—before the harvest gets ahead of you.
If you’re gardening in a similar climate, I’d love to hear: what’s thriving for you right now, what pests you’re seeing, and what’s been your biggest surprise so far this season?
If this garden tour was helpful or encouraging, would you share it with another gardener—especially someone in a colder zone? Your shares and comments help these updates reach more folks who are growing right alongside us.
Every Fourth of July, there’s a lot of noise—fireworks, parades, red‑white‑and‑blue everything. I don’t begrudge any of it. In fact, I embrace all of it, and these events are some of my favorite of the summer. But my own patriotism tends to show up in quieter ways, especially as we head toward America’s 250th birthday in 2026.
This season isn’t just about looking up at the sky. It’s about looking back with gratitude, looking around with clear eyes, and asking how we can love this place well in the small, ordinary days we’ve been given.
Remembering the People Who Got Us Here
When I think about America 250, my mind goes first to gratitude—for the people who made it possible for me to be here at all.
My own ancestors left Germany in the mid‑1800s, walking away from upheaval and uncertainty. They traded familiar villages and language for the unknowns of an ocean crossing and a new country. I think about what it must have taken for them to move entire families and villages to a new country. I picture them on crowded docks, clutching children and trunks. In their arms they carried everything they owned in the world, placing a fragile hope in a place they had never seen.
They came because they believed there might be room here to build a life, raise families, worship freely, work hard, and build a legacy. That courage—and the opportunities they found—is a gift I didn’t earn but get to receive. Remembering that fills me with humility and gratitude, not guilt.
Learning Our History as an Act of Love
When we love a person, we usually want to know their whole story—the good, the hard, the in‑between. I think loving a country can be similar.
Quiet patriotism, for me, means:
Celebrating the ideals that shaped this place—liberty, self‑government, freedom of speech and assembly.
Learning more about the people who helped build those ideals into reality: farmers and factory workers, teachers and soldiers, abolitionists and suffragists, civil rights leaders and small‑town organizers.
Making room in my understanding for stories that aren’t just like mine, so I can better appreciate how wide and complicated “we the people” really is.
For me, learning the harder parts of our history doesn’t lessen my love for this country; it deepens it. This isn’t about dwelling on what’s wrong. It’s about loving our country enough to know it deeply, the way you’d want to really know a friend or a spouse. The more I learn, the more amazed I am by the resilience, creativity, and everyday goodness woven through our history.
Noticing the “Good” Right Where We Live
It’s easy to talk about “America” in big, abstract terms. But most of the reasons I love this country show up in small, local ways:
The freedom to plant a garden on a little patch of ground and teach my child our core values.
The mix of people in even a small town—different backgrounds, different stories—finding ways to live side by side.
The libraries, parks, and back roads that quietly serve as the backdrop of our lives.
The ability to speak, write, and vote without asking permission, even when we disagree with our leaders.
These are not small things. They’re daily gifts my ancestors hoped for and that many people in the world still long for. Part of being patriotic, to me, is pausing long enough to notice and appreciate them.
Everyday Acts That Feel Patriotic
Fireworks last only a few minutes. The rest of the year, love of country looks much more ordinary.
In my own life, quiet patriotism shows up when I:
Tend our little homestead with care—paying attention to soil and water, making efficient use of everything we have, remembering that stewardship is part of gratitude.
Try to be a steady wife, mom, daughter, and friend—keeping promises, apologizing when I’m wrong, showing up as my whole self even when no one is watching.
Raise a child who understands both the gifts and responsibilities of living here: that others fought, marched, worked, and invented so we could enjoy things we now call “normal.”
Show up for neighbors—bringing casseroles, clearing brush, watching kids—because strong communities are one of the best defenses against despair and division.
Those things may never be described as patriotic in a speech. But they are my way of saying, “I’m grateful to be here, and I want to leave this place a little better than I found it.”
Civic Habits That Keep Hope Alive
Beyond our own homes and neighborhoods, there are also quiet ways to care for the wider country we share.
Love of country isn’t only a feeling; it’s also a set of habits that keep a free society going. That can sound intimidating, but it often looks quite simple:
Voting, even in the “small” elections (because that’s where the decisions that most affect our lives are anyway), and explaining to our kids why it matters.
Paying attention to what’s happening in our town, not just on national headlines.
Writing or calling leaders respectfully when something matters deeply to us.
Practicing kindness and curiosity toward people who see things differently, remembering we share more than we think.
These habits aren’t a burden; they’re privileges. They are some of the ways we get to participate in the experiment our founders started and that many generations in between have since tried to improve.
Letting the Fourth Be Joyful and Honest
I don’t want a Fourth of July that’s only serious and heavy. I want room for joy too:
For kids waving flags at small‑town parades.
For families gathering around grills and picnic tables.
For fireworks reflected in ponds and rivers and wide‑open fields.
At the same time, I don’t want a Fourth that’s only sentimental. I want a celebration that honors the good, acknowledges the hard, and leans toward hope.
It’s possible to be deeply grateful for America’s gifts and still honest about its flaws. In fact, I think that combination—gratitude plus honesty—is one of the most patriotic stances we can take.
A Gentle Invitation for America 250
As we move toward America’s 250th birthday, you don’t have to overhaul your life to “be patriotic.” You might simply:
Learn one new story from America’s past that you didn’t know before—maybe from a perspective different from your own.
Take a moment on the Fourth to name out loud a few things you genuinely love about this country.
Thank someone in your life who quietly embodies the best of what you hope America can be.
Choose one small civic habit—registering to vote, attending a local meeting, supporting a local farm or business—and commit to it as an act of gratitude.
My ancestors crossed an ocean so I could live here. My way of honoring that isn’t loud or flashy. It’s to keep learning, keep noticing the good, keep tending my little corner, and keep believing that our shared story can keep bending toward something truer and kinder.
If you’re willing to share, I’d love to hear: what’s one thing you’re genuinely grateful for about this country—and one small way you’d like to pass that gift on to the next generation?
If this resonated with you, would you pass it along to a friend or family member who loves this country in a quieter way too? Your shares and comments help these reflections find the people who might need them.
As June Dairy Month comes to a close, I’ve been thinking about how much this month’s writing has revolved around farmers, hayfields, and the quiet weight of rural life. It wasn’t a strategic content plan so much as an honest outflow of what’s on my heart—and on my mind—this time of year.
In case you missed any of the recent posts (or want to revisit them with fresh eyes), here’s a look back at the stories we’ve walked through together.
In one post, I took you out to the hayfield, where an old New Holland baler still clatters its way across the field, tying bales as steadily as it did in the 1960s. We followed its story from my grandfather’s horse-drawn days, through my dad’s years of frantic shear-pin changes and late‑night repairs, all the way to today’s summers under my father’s care.
That baler became more than a machine—it stood in for a family legacy of persistence, resourcefulness, and care passed down from one set of hands to the next. Each bale it drops is a small monument to the people who refused to let it quit.
Another post shifted from machinery to identity. I shared my “confession” that, for years, I tried to tuck my farm background away—doing just enough chores, avoiding being “too farm kid,” and choosing choirs over FFA. I wanted the values without the label.
But homesteading habits kept creeping back: blanching green beans, learning to make sauerkraut, failing (and eventually succeeding) at homemade pizza. A glut of cucumbers and a Facebook post finally opened my eyes to how unusual my access to fresh food really was—and how much others valued what I took for granted.
Through coworkers’ questions and friends’ enthusiasm, I began to see my rural upbringing not as a liability, but as an asset: a source of work ethic, resourcefulness, and a perspective that still shapes how I parent, homestead, and show up in my community.
We also zoomed out to look more directly at farmer mental health. That post walked through the way farming has changed over the past forty years: fewer, larger farms; bigger equipment; “land rich and cash poor” realities; new diseases and pests; and markets that feel like a roller coaster.
Layer by layer, we named the unseen pressures—chronic stress, isolation, identity and legacy, and stigma around asking for help. The goal wasn’t to drown anyone in statistics, but to give words to what many farmers and farm families are already feeling: that toughness doesn’t make you immune to stress, and that talking about it is an act of courage, not weakness.
We also talked about what farmers need to hear (that being exhausted doesn’t mean you’re failing) and what the rest of us can do in small but meaningful ways: listening well, supporting local, sharing resources, and checking in after hard news.
In honor of June Dairy Month, another piece turned the camera toward what June actually feels like on the farm. While towns see smiling cow posters, ice cream specials, and farm breakfasts, farmers see early alarms, hot barns, hayfields racing storms, and bills riding in their back pockets.
I shared memories of June as “hold on tight and hope the machinery cooperates,” and explored how it can feel to be “celebrated” while you’re barely keeping up. For some, June Dairy Month is joyful; for others, it’s complicated. We imagined what farmers might actually want this month: fewer speeches and more listening, real prayers for safety and rest, quiet texts that say, “How are you holding up?” and resources that gently say, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
I also mention practical ways to honor farmers—asking better questions, dropping off food or encouragement during haying, and telling kids the story behind the milk in their glasses.
Most recently, I shared a story from before I was born, about how one small act—stopping to help on a red barn roof—turned two neighboring farmers into lifelong friends. A neighbor pulled in, climbed up despite a fear of heights, and offered a hand. From that afternoon on the peak, their lives became deeply intertwined through haying days, shared meals, weddings, and tough seasons.
As a kid, I joined those hay crews, stacked bales until I was covered in dust, and ate big meals that felt like our own modern threshing bees. Looking back, I can see how that one moment of courage and kindness rippled through decades and shaped the community I grew up in.
What Threads These Stories Together
Across all these posts, a few themes keep surfacing:
The steady, sometimes unnoticed persistence of farmers and farm families
The way small acts—fixing an old baler, sharing cucumbers, stopping to help on a roof—carry forward into generations
The tension between public celebrations of agriculture and the private weight many farmers carry
The quiet, sturdy beauty of rural friendships and communities
June Dairy Month may be the official reason to talk about cows and fields, but the stories don’t fit neatly into one month on a calendar. They’re ongoing, season after season.
If one of these posts resonated with you, I’m glad you were here. And if you’re a farmer, or love one, thank you—for the work you do, the courage it takes, and the stories you’re still living.
If you have a minute, I’d love to know: which of these stories stuck with you most, and what would you like to see more of in the months ahead?
If you know someone who loves farm stories—or someone who lives them—would you share this recap with them? Your shares and comments help these stories find the people who need them.
In today’s post, I want to share a story from more than a decade before I was born—one that shaped my childhood in a foundational way. It’s the story of how two farmers became friends, and how that friendship became part of the fabric of our family.
The Farmer on the Barn Roof
My dad, set to inherit the family farm, was working on my grandparents’ red barn roof. He had not yet met my mom and was about 25. My grandparents were laying the groundwork for the farm handover. They’d helped him buy the property next door (where I eventually grew up) and taught him farming from childhood (as was customary).
That day, he was up on their red barn. This wasn’t some tiny shed—it stretched about 60 feet long, with the roof starting roughly 25 feet off the ground and peaking even higher. In other words, working up there was no small task.
A Simple Act of Help Changes Everything
A local farmer, a couple years older than my dad, drove by and spotted him. He pulled in, climbed up to the roof, and offered a hand. My dad said yes, and the farmer sat on the peak for a couple minutes—gathering his nerve—before joining in the work. What my dad didn’t know at the time was that this farmer was afraid of heights. That detail makes the moment even more meaningful to me—he set his fear aside to help a neighbor.
From that afternoon on the barn roof, a friendship sparked that continues to this day.
A Farm Friendship That Shaped Decades—and My Childhood
They wove themselves into each other’s lives completely. They attended each other’s weddings (sharing not just the same first name, but wives with the same first name too). They sponsored each other’s kids and teamed up for big jobs like baling hay across large fields.
From the time I could lift bales, I pitched in during those haying days. As one large team with two small New Holland balers, we would bale 2,000 to 3,000 small bales in a day—enough to fill a haymow and feed the cattle for months. I’d finish covered in dust and sweat—I didn’t exactly love it then—but I look back on those memories fondly now.
Baling hay was always a big endeavor.
After the hard work wrapped up, we’d always share a big meal together. I didn’t realize it as a kid, but it felt like our own version of the old threshing bees, where neighbors gathered to help put away the feed, eat, and celebrate the harvest.
Before that day on the roof, they were just acquaintances. Afterward, they were like brothers. That one choice—to stop, help, and climb despite his fear—rippled through shared work, celebrations, tough seasons, and the community I grew up in.
And it all started with one farmer seeing another on a tall red barn and deciding not to drive on by.
Do you have a story of a neighbor or friend whose one small act changed the course of your farm or family?
If this story brought someone to mind—a neighbor, a friend, or a farmer you’re grateful for—would you pass it along to them or share it so others can be reminded how much small acts of help matter?
This piece is written in honor of the farmers who live June from the farmyard side of the fence, and for the neighbors who want to understand and support them a little better.
June celebrates dairy on the shelf, but every cow stands behind a farmer who got up early to care for her.
June shows up every year with smiling cow cartoons, ice cream specials, and “June Dairy Month!” signs at the grocery store. Those things make me smile too. I love a good squeaky cheese curd or a deep‑fried cheese curd as much as the next person.
But when I see those displays, my mind doesn’t go first to the dairy case. It goes to the people behind it—the farmers who are too busy scraping alleys, baling hay, fixing something that broke, or trying to make the numbers work to even notice that it’s “their month.”
What June Looks Like From the Farm Side
From town, June Dairy Month looks like ice cream socials and farm breakfasts. From the farmyard, it looks like:
An alarm that rings before the sky is pink.
Cows that don’t know it’s a holiday—they just know it’s milking time again.
Hayfields that are finally dry enough to cut and bale, and a forecast that may or may not cooperate.
Maybe you’re hustling to get first‑crop hay in before a line of storms. Maybe you’re watching the thermometer climb and worrying about how your cows will handle the heat. Maybe you’re waiting on a haybine part that’s “supposed to be here tomorrow” while the grass gets a little older every day.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, there’s a calf kicking up her heels in fresh bedding or a field that finally looks just right in the evening light—and you tuck that away as quiet fuel to keep going. When the world says, “Let’s celebrate farmers!,” June often says, “Let’s see how much more you can carry.”
The Part the Posters Don’t Show
When I was a kid, June didn’t feel like a themed month; it felt like “hold on tight and hope the machinery cooperates.” I remember:
The way supper got pushed later and later because there was still hay to bale, still a calf to treat, still a broken something to put back together.
The quiet mental math of “Can we afford this repair?” and “Will the milk check stretch far enough this month?”
You didn’t see that on the posters at the grocery store. You still don’t. The public sees the ice cream cone; you see the list of bills in your back pocket while they enjoy it.
How It Feels to Be “Celebrated”
If you’re a farmer, you might get a lot of “Thank you, farmers!” posts in your feed this month. They’re kind, and they’re appreciated. But sometimes they land in a funny place in your chest.
On the one hand, it feels good to be noticed. On the other hand, you may be thinking:
“If you really knew what this took, you’d understand why I’m too tired to come to the celebration.”
“I’m glad you love cheese, but I wish someone would ask how we’re really doing.”
“I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like I’m barely keeping up.”
Being celebrated can be strange when you’re also wondering if the next generation will be able to keep doing this the way your family always has. Some farmers genuinely love every minute of June Dairy Month; others feel a twinge of something more complicated under the surface.
What Farmers Might Actually Want This June
If I could rewrite June Dairy Month from the farm side, it would still have ice cream and farm breakfasts. But it might also have:
A quiet text from a neighbor that says, “How are things holding up on your farm this spring?” or, better yet, “Can we help you with haying?”
A church announcement that includes not just a dairy potluck, but a prayer for farmers’ safety, sanity, and sleep.
A flyer at the co‑op with real support resources and a simple line: “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
It might look like fewer speeches and more listening. Less, “Tell us your success story,” and more, “What’s been heavy this year, and how can we stand with you in it?”
A Small Invitation for Non‑Farm Folks
If you don’t farm but you love your milk, cheese, and summer sweet corn, you don’t need a big platform to make June “land” differently for the farmers in your life.
You could:
Ask one real question and give space for a real answer: “What’s June like for you on the farm?”
Drop off a pan of bars or brownies, a pizza, or a gift card during haying or harvest, no strings attached.
Tell your kids, “This milk didn’t start in a carton. It started with a family that got up early today.”
Share a hotline number or farm stress resource quietly with a farmer friend and say, “No pressure at all. I just want you to have this in your back pocket.”
None of that fixes markets or weather. But it tells a farmer, “I see you—not just what you produce.”
A Word to the Farmers Reading This
If June feels heavy instead of festive this year, you’re not doing it wrong.
You can be proud of your work and still be tired of the fight. You can love your cows and your land and still feel worn down by the paperwork, the payments, and the pressure. You can be grateful and still be honest that this is hard.
If all you do this June is keep going, catch your breath when you can, maybe say out loud to one safe person, “This is a lot right now”—that is enough. You’re more than a photo op or a slogan. You’re a whole person in boots and jeans and calloused hands, carrying decisions that most people never see.
More Than a Month on the Calendar
I’m glad we set aside a month to celebrate dairy and the farmers who make it possible. But when the banners come down and the sales end, the work goes on.
My hope is that June can be more than a marketing campaign—that it can be a yearly reminder to look past the milk carton and into the lives of the people behind it, to ask better questions, listen a little longer, and remember that “supporting farmers” is about more than buying another gallon.
If you’re a farmer (dairy or otherwise), what do you wish people understood about June on your farm?
If this resonated with you, would you pass it along to someone who cares about farmers—or share it where other farm families might see it? I’d also love to hear from you in the comments: what’s one small way you’ve seen someone truly honor a farmer, or one thing you wish people understood about June on your farm?
Hay season means long days, heavy decisions, and worries that don’t clock out when the sun gets low.
When most people picture a farmer, they imagine strong hands, early mornings, and a deep connection to the land. Those things are true. But what’s less visible is the mental and emotional weight that modern farmers carry—often in silence.
Over the last 40 years, farming has changed dramatically. We’ve seen consolidated farms, bigger machinery, larger herds, and new technology. Alongside those changes came something else: bigger debt, more uncertainty, and worries that don’t clock out when the day is done.
This piece isn’t about statistics. It’s about naming some of the pressures farmers feel, and why mental health deserves to be part of the conversation when we talk about agriculture.
From Many Small Farms to Fewer, Bigger Ones
A generation or two ago, it was common to see many small and mid-sized family farms clustered within a few miles of each other. They could lean on each other for basic help. My dad and a good farmer friend lived two miles apart and shared haymaking equipment and labor. We would spend a day baling hay at the friend’s place, and another day baling hay on our farm.
On a good day with lots of help, we could bale and put away 2,000–3,000 small square bales—enough to fill a hay mow from the floor to the rafters and keep a dairy herd fed for months. All the while, we had good conversations, got a solid workout, and ate a good meal afterward. There was a sense of satisfaction I didn’t fully appreciate at the time as I coughed up dust all night and well into the next day. We could rely on each other for reciprocal help that taught me what true community support looks like.
Over the past few decades:
Many small operations have closed or merged.
Land has consolidated into fewer, larger farms.
Surviving farms often feel pressure to “get bigger or get out.”
This shift means:
Less shared workload between neighbors.
More land, animals, and responsibilities on fewer shoulders.
A sense of loss—not just of businesses, but of communities and a way of life.
My dad and his friend both sold their cows around the same time. I remember the farm auction they jointly held when I was an early teenager. At the time, I was thrilled that we didn’t have the cows anymore. In adulthood, that relief turned into sadness, because it meant there were two fewer dairy farms in the area. Now, the farms with 100 or fewer cows are few and far between. My dad used to joke that FFA—“Future Farmers of America”—really stood for “Father Farming Alone.” He wasn’t wrong.
For the farmers who remain, this consolidation can bring a mix of gratitude (for still being here) and grief (for those who aren’t).
“Land Rich,” Cash Poor
Another layer in all of this is what people sometimes call being “land rich.”
Many farmers:
Own or are paying on hundreds of acres of land.
Have barns, sheds, and equipment worth significant money on paper.
From the outside, it can look like wealth. But the reality is often:
Most of that value is tied up in land and buildings that can’t be easily sold without dismantling the farm.
Day-to-day cash flow can be tight, especially when prices are low or inputs are high.
The same land that represents security also represents responsibility, taxes, and debt.
Being “land rich and cash poor” is its own kind of mental strain. Farmers can feel:
Trapped between the desire to keep the farm going and the weight of the bills.
Guilty for even considering selling something that generations built.
Misunderstood by people who only see acreage and assume comfort, not stress.
When the balance sheet says “asset,” but the checking account says “barely,” it adds another quiet layer of pressure.
Bigger Equipment, Bigger Debt
With larger farms comes larger equipment:
Bigger tractors, combines, balers, and harvesters.
More sophisticated technology—GPS, monitors, sensors, and software.
These tools can boost efficiency, but they come at a cost:
High purchase prices, ongoing payments, and subscription fees.
Expensive parts and repairs when something breaks (usually at the worst possible time).
The constant knowledge that a breakdown—or a bad year—could put the whole operation at risk.
Carrying that level of debt isn’t just a line item in a budget. It’s a weight in the back of a farmer’s mind, especially at night. Farming has always been stressful, but when you add costs that are ten or a hundred times higher than they used to be, the stress compounds right along with it.
Mutating Diseases, New Pests, and Biosecurity Worries
The last few decades have also brought:
New or mutating livestock diseases.
Crop diseases and pests that adapt quickly.
Rising biosecurity concerns, especially with larger, more concentrated herds.
This adds another layer of stress:
One outbreak can threaten years of hard work.
Farmers must constantly update protocols, vaccinations, and preventative care.
There’s a nagging worry: “What if something slips through? What if we miss something?”
The responsibility of caring for animals and crops isn’t just physical; it’s emotional. When animals get sick or crops fail, it can feel like a personal failure—even when it isn’t.
I recently heard the sad story of a local strawberry farm that lost much of its crop to a disease that thrives in wet soil after a particularly rainy spring. I’ve also watched them rebound in a way that is truly inspiring—launching a strawberry-scented skincare line made from the berries they could salvage and using their platform to educate the public about soil health. Even in resilience, you can feel the weight of what was lost and the effort it took for them to pivot.
Markets That Feel Like a Roller Coaster
Farmers today live with:
Fluctuating commodity prices.
Sudden changes in demand, trade policies, and global events.
Input costs (fuel, fertilizer, feed, repairs) that don’t always match what they’re paid.
That means:
It’s harder to plan even one year ahead, let alone several.
A good production year doesn’t always mean a good financial year.
Farmers carry the constant question: “Will this be the year we can’t make it work?”
Uncertainty isn’t just a math problem. It’s a mental burden—especially when an entire family’s livelihood, legacy, and identity are tied to the farm.
More Worries, Less Margin for Error
Put all of that together, and you get a heavy load:
Bigger farms and fewer people to share the work.
Bigger machines and bigger debts.
Disease, pests, and biosecurity concerns that never truly go away.
Markets that can swing wildly from one season to the next.
Land that looks like wealth on paper, but doesn’t always translate into financial breathing room.
And yet, despite all this, many farmers still:
Get up before sunrise.
Work long days in all kinds of weather.
Care deeply about their animals, crops, and customers.
Try to show up at community events and be good neighbors.
They do it not because it’s an easy business decision, but because farming is a calling—a way of life they care about too deeply to walk away from lightly.
From the outside, it’s easy to see just the toughness. From the inside, farmers know: toughness doesn’t make you immune to stress, anxiety, or depression. It just makes you more likely to keep quiet about it.
The Quiet Strain on Farmer Mental Health
Some common mental health pressures on farmers include:
Chronic stress. There is always something to worry about—weather, prices, animals, equipment, finances.
Isolation. Many farms are rural and remote, with fewer opportunities to socialize or talk openly about struggles. The isolation has only increased as farms have consolidated and neighbors have sold out.
Identity and legacy. The farm often isn’t “just a job.” It’s a family identity and a multi-generation story. The fear of being “the one who couldn’t keep it going” runs deep.
Stigma. In many farm communities, there’s an unspoken rule: you work hard, keep your head down, and don’t complain. Asking for help can feel like weakness, even when it’s actually courage.
It’s not unusual for farmers to feel:
Overwhelmed
Guilty for feeling overwhelmed
Unsure where to turn or what resources exist
Naming these realities doesn’t mean farmers are broken. It means they’re human.
What Farmers Need to Hear
If you’re a farmer, or married to one, or raising farm kids, you may need to hear that:
Feeling stressed or anxious doesn’t mean you’re failing.
Being exhausted by the weight of decisions and responsibilities is understandable.
You are not the only one who lies awake at night worrying about the bank, the herd, the crops, the land, the next generation.
Talking to someone—a friend, pastor, counselor, doctor—is not a sign of weakness. It’s one more way of caring for your farm and family, because you are part of both.
What the Rest of Us Can Do
For those who aren’t farming but care about farmers, there are small but meaningful ways to help:
Acknowledge the weight. Simply saying, “I know things are tough right now, and I appreciate what you do,” can matter more than you realize.
Listen without minimizing. Resist the urge to say “It’ll all work out” or “At least you get to live in the country.” Instead try: “That sounds really hard. Do you want to talk about it?”
Support local when you can. Buying from local farms and small businesses helps, even if it’s not a complete solution.
Share resources. If you hear about mental health hotlines, local support groups, or farm stress programs, pass them along without pressure: “I saw this and thought it might be useful if you ever wanted it.”
Check in after hard news. A bad storm, a price crash, a big equipment breakdown—these are good times to send a message or stop by.
A Small Invitation
Over the past 40 years, farms have gotten bigger, equipment has gotten bigger, and the to-do lists and worries have grown right alongside them. What hasn’t grown at the same pace is our willingness to talk honestly about what all of that does to a farmer’s mind and heart.
For many farmers, this work is more than a career. It’s a calling they’ve been born into, chosen, or both—and that’s part of why the weight can feel so heavy.
I don’t pretend to speak for every farmer or every situation, but these are some of the patterns I’ve seen and lived.
We can’t solve everything in one conversation or one blog post. But we can:
Start naming the pressures.
Make it normal to talk about stress and mental health in farm communities.
Remind farmers that their worth is not measured only in bushels, pounds, acres, or how many acres they “own” on paper.
If you’re a farmer, or you love one, I hope this gives you language for some of what you’re feeling—or seeing.
And if you’re reading this from town or city, maybe the next time you pass a tractor on the road, pour a glass of milk, have a steak, or drive by a field, you’ll remember: behind that scene is a person carrying more than just a workload.
If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear: what’s one thing you wish people understood about the mental load farmers carry—or one small way you think we could better support them?
If this post helped put words to what you’ve seen or felt, would you share it with someone who cares about farmers—or save it to revisit later? Your stories matter too. I’d be honored if you shared a small piece of your experience or tagged a farmer who deserves a quiet “thank you.”
The baler rattles across the field, kicking up dust in its wake. Each stroke of the plunger on our old New Holland baler strikes a rhythm I’ve known for as long as I can remember, growing up on a hay farm. To most, it’s just an old machine grinding through another hay crop. To me, it’s the steady heartbeat of family history.
My grandfather was born in 1911 and grew up working with horses in the field. He didn’t fully retire the horses until after World War II. In 1951, he bought his own farm, and in 1977 he purchased the farm next door—the place where I would grow up, and the one I hope to someday manage.
Somewhere in the middle of all that change, he bought this New Holland baler new in 1964. Sixty-two years later, under my father’s care, it’s still knotting twine and spitting out hay bales—stubborn as ever.
A tool that old doesn’t survive by luck. It lasts because hands refuse to let it quit.
I think of frantic shear pin replacements in the field before storms, grease-slicked wrenches, evenings spent tightening chains or swapping bearings as clouds pushed in.
Each repair was more than maintenance; it was a promise that the baler would see another hay harvest. Its clatter is proof of care passed from one set of hands to the next.
What I value most isn’t only its reliability, but the story etched into every dent and weld. Farming has changed in ways my grandfather never could have imagined—mammoth tractors, bigger bales, GPS-guided rows—but this old New Holland baler remains, a bridge tying his summers to mine. Each bale it drops is more than forage; it’s a small monument to persistence, tangible proof that his investment still pays forward.
There’s a quiet pride in watching it work—steady, unassuming, framed by sun and dust. I sometimes imagine my grandfather and father standing beside me, hearing that same hum carry across the field, nodding at the machine they once trusted with a season’s livelihood.
And as long as the chute spits out hay beneath the summer sky, their legacy endures. Someday, when I hand the lines to the next set of hands, I hope they’ll listen closely. If they do, they won’t just hear an old clatter in the field. They’ll hear the rhythm of persistence, the echo of care, the sound of a haying legacy worth continuing.
I’d also love to hear from you: is there a piece of equipment, a tool, or a sound that instantly takes you back to your own family’s farm story?
If this little glimpse into our haying history resonated with you, would you share it with someone who loves old equipment or grew up on a farm?
I always knew about chamomile tea. I’d heard people talk about winding down with a mug before bed and mention the health benefits—things like calming the nervous system, easing digestion, and supporting better sleep.
What I didn’t know was that you could forage your own chamomile blossoms…until I watched my husband’s grandmother do it.
She walked right out into the driveway and started picking what I had always thought were just little white-and-yellow weeds. It was like a lightbulb went off in my head. These “weeds” I’d seen growing all over the driveway actually produce a delicious tea? Mind officially blown.
If you’re not familiar with foraging your own chamomile, this is a simple guide to help you:
Recognize chamomile in the wild
Harvest it (bonus points if you involve kids)
Dry and store it
Brew your own homemade chamomile tea whenever you want—without the grocery store bill
As always, I’m sharing our experience for informational purposes; it’s not medical advice.
Where Chamomile Likes to Grow
One of the most surprising things about chamomile is where it chooses to grow. It doesn’t always show up in neat garden rows or carefully tended herb beds.
You’ll often find it in:
Gravel driveways and along the edges of paths
Road ditches and disturbed soil
Around barnyards, fence lines, and well-traveled areas
Sometimes in garden beds if it’s self-seeded or naturalized
It seems to have a soft spot for tough, compacted, “nobody wants to grow here” spots—which is part of its charm. Once you know what you’re looking for, you may start seeing it everywhere.
Chamomile typically blooms through much of the warmer season, often late spring into summer depending on your climate. That’s the time of year you’ll want to start scanning those driveways and ditches for blossoms.
If you’re foraging near roads, be mindful of:
Spraying (avoid areas that may have been treated with herbicides)
Pet or livestock traffic (look for cleaner patches)
Traffic dust and grime (driveways and paths on your own property are usually a safer bet)
What Chamomile Looks Like (and Smells Like)
Before you start picking anything, it’s important to be confident in what you’re harvesting.
Chamomile generally has:
Small daisy-like flowers
White petals
Yellow, dome-shaped center
Fine, feathery leaves
Light, airy, almost carrot-top-like foliage
A sweet, apple-like scent when you crush the flower heads between your fingers
A few simple tips:
Look for patches of low-growing plants with lots of little white-and-yellow flowers rather than single, tall stems here and there.
Rub a flower gently between your fingers and smell it. That sweet, apple-y scent is a good sign you’re in the right place.
There are a few different chamomile and chamomile-lookalike species out there, and some “daisy” weeds can be mistaken for chamomile at first glance. If you’re unsure, start in a spot where you know chamomile has already been identified correctly (a family member’s patch, a friend’s garden, or your own yard from purchased seed), and cross-check with a field guide or trusted resource before branching out into roadside foraging.
How to Harvest Chamomile Blossoms
When you’re ready to harvest, focus on the flower heads rather than the stems and leaves.
Basic harvesting steps:
Choose a dry day. Harvest when the flowers are dry (late morning or afternoon is usually best, after the dew has evaporated).
Look for open flowers. Pick blossoms that are fully open and cheerful-looking—not browned or fading.
Pinch or snip. Gently pinch the flower head between your fingers and thumb and pop it off the stem, or use small scissors if you prefer.
You don’t need the whole stem for tea—just the flower heads. Stems and leaves can be a bit more bitter and aren’t necessary for a nice cup of chamomile.
In a short picking session, you can easily gather enough blossoms to fill a small bowl or two, which will translate into several jars’ worth of tea once they’re dried.
Make It a Family Foraging Activity
Chamomile harvesting is a perfect kid job.
Why it works so well with children:
The flowers are low to the ground and easy to reach.
The “popping” motion of picking the flower heads is actually fun.
There’s a clear, satisfying end product: “We’re picking these to make tea we’ll drink later.”
Give each child:
A small basket, bowl, or container
A simple instruction: “We’re picking the little white flowers with yellow centers—no leaves, no grass.”
It’s a gentle way to:
Teach plant identification
Talk about where our food and herbs come from
Connect everyday “weeds” to real, useful things in your kitchen
How to Dry Chamomile for Tea
After you’ve picked a bowl of blossoms, it’s time to dry them so they don’t mold and will keep well through the year.
Option 1: Using a Dehydrator
Ready to steep and drink!
If you have a dehydrator, this is the most controlled method.
Spread the blossoms in a single layer on your dehydrator trays.
Set the temperature to around 95°F (a low, gentle setting to preserve flavor and color).
Dry for about 24 hours, or until the flowers are completely dry and papery to the touch.
Test a few by crushing them between your fingers—there should be no softness, just a dry crumble.
Option 2: Air-Drying or Sun-Drying
If you don’t have a dehydrator, you can still dry chamomile.
Spread the blossoms in a single layer on a clean screen, rack, or baking sheet.
Place them in a warm, dry place out of direct rain and heavy dew.
Make sure there is good airflow—near a sunny window or in a protected, breezy spot outside works well.
Gently stir or turn them once a day so they dry evenly.
Depending on humidity, it may take several days. Again, you want the blossoms fully dry and crisp before storing.
How to Store Dried Chamomile
Once your flowers are fully dry, you can store them for months.
Simple storage options:
Glass jars with lids (mason jars work great)
Clean, food-safe containers with tight-fitting lids
Or, going old-school: something like a washed and dried Cool Whip container, just like my husband’s grandmother used
Whichever container you choose, keep it:
In a cool, dry place
Out of direct sunlight
Labeled with the contents and date
Properly dried and stored, your chamomile should keep its flavor and gentle fragrance for a year or more.
Brewing Your Own Foraged Chamomile Tea
Now for the best part: turning those foraged blossoms into a cozy mug of tea.
I have chamomile tea, the kids are drinking other tea tonight!
On a cool winter night (or whenever you need a moment to relax), you can:
Take a tea ball, reusable tea bag, or small infuser.
Add about 1 tablespoon of dried chamomile flowers per cup of water.
Pour boiling water over the tea.
Let it steep for about 5 minutes (longer if you like a stronger flavor).
Remove the infuser, let the tea cool slightly, and enjoy.
You can drink it:
Plain
With a drizzle of honey
With a splash of milk or cream, if you like it a little softer
For us, it’s become a go-to when someone needs to unwind or has a slightly unsettled stomach, and there’s something extra special about knowing you picked those flowers yourself.
A Few Gentle Reminders
As with any foraged herb:
Make sure you’ve correctly identified the plant before consuming.
Avoid areas that may have been sprayed or heavily contaminated.
If you’re pregnant, nursing, or on medications, it’s always wise to double-check with a trusted healthcare provider before adding new herbal teas regularly.
From “Weed” to Teacup
Watching my husband’s grandmother bend down in the driveway and start picking “weeds” for tea completely changed how I look at what grows around us.
Chamomile went from being a box on a grocery shelf to a living, growing plant that shows up in the unlikeliest places—and now, to something our family can gather, dry, and sip together.
If you’ve ever wondered whether you could forage your own tea, chamomile is a gentle, beginner-friendly place to start.
Have you ever foraged something you used to buy at the store?
If this chamomile guide gave you some ideas (or a little confidence to try foraging), would you share it with a friend or save it for later?
What is the best concert I’ve ever been to? I can’t pick just one concert experience. The “best” concert seems to depend on who I was at the time. Live music has a way of marking seasons of life, and a few Green Bay concert memories stand out for very different reasons.
Awolnation in a Gritty Green Bay Bar
In 2016, in Green Bay, Wisconsin, I bought tickets for my now-husband and me to see Awolnation. The show was in a bar with a large open area usually reserved for winter volleyball leagues. The ground was somehow both gritty and sticky. The concert started late; the crowd was all in, and I sang every word along with them. At one point, the lead singer changed a lyric in “Run” from “capable of doing terrible things” to “capable of doing beautiful things,” and that shift stuck with me. I started at the back of the room and slowly worked my way to the front, carried by the energy of the crowd. Near the end, he threw a guitar pick into the audience, and somehow, I caught it. It still sits in my curio cabinet, ready to tell its story—whether anyone asks or not. Even now, ten years later, it feels worth the lost sleep and the slow next day at work.
A Beatles Tribute and Pregnancy at Lambeau
A few years later, in 2019, music met me in a quieter moment. I was pregnant with my son when Paul McCartney came to Lambeau Field—a huge event for Green Bay. The night before, Titletown hosted a free concert with a Beatles tribute band, BritBeat. We brought lawn chairs; my husband grabbed a beer and an iced tea for me, and I settled in for a calm evening of familiar Beatles songs. The Beatles have a special place in my heart. In high school, an influential choir teacher introduced them to us, and it was the first time I realized how much lyrics matter—how they can turn a song into something that stays with you. As the band played “She Loves You” and “Eleanor Rigby,” I felt my son start to move. Sitting there, singing along, it felt like we were sharing the moment. It wasn’t loud or electric like Awolnation, but it carried a quieter kind of weight.
Family-Friendly Concerts in the Park
These days, concerts look different again. We go to local family-friendly Concerts in the Park, where my kids run off to play tag and make instant friends while the music drifts in and out. I sit in a lawn chair with a friend—or occasionally my husband, if I can convince him to come—and still sing along, sometimes making up my own lyrics just to keep things interesting. I run into acquaintances and friends who deepen my sense of belonging in the community. The music is still there, but now it plays under everything else: kids racing past, someone calling out a name, a conversation that pauses and picks back up between songs.
How Live Music Marks Each Season of Life
Someday, I’d love to bring my kids to a concert like that Awolnation show—something loud and unforgettable. But for now, this season of life fits. The best concert wasn’t just one night; it’s the way live music has followed me—from crowded floors to quiet evenings to kids running in the grass—changing right along with me as I’m raising kids and building community.
Practical Homesteading 