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I grew up in a twenty-four-by-thirty-six foot house. I lost three fingers on my left hand in a meat grinding accident when I was a kid. I am and always will be a farmer, like my folks and like my grandparents before me.
In fact, I’m very proud to be the U.S. Senate’s only working dirt farmer.
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Every spring, I spend a lot of weeks working the stubble, getting equipment ready for planting, and out in the field seeding. Come summer, I am out there harvesting. I maintain my own heavy equipment and deliver my grain in a truck that’s a bit bigger than what any of my colleagues drive.
I buy grease by the case and seeds by the ton. I butcher my own beef. My wife, Sharla, and I work the farm hand-in-hand.
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The task of scheduling my work in the Senate around the inflexible timing of farm responsibilities drives my staff crazy — but they know my farm work is non-negotiable. It keeps me, quite literally, grounded.
And rather than spend my days hobnobbing with special interests, I rely on hardworking folks like you to power everything we do.
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