by Martha Stevens
I live, work, breathe, and LOVE my little piece of Heaven—our family farm. Over the years we have raised wheat, corn, soybeans, hay, cattle, horses, sheep, hogs, a goat, dogs, cats, and farm kids. Not to mention numerous “critters” who wandered by—and stayed—content to languish in or under our shade trees and tolerate the human presence in exchange for a free handout. And we loved every minute of it.
Our neighbors were warm and friendly, helpful in a time of crisis, and considerate of our feelings. Their children were our children; our children, theirs. Our community was close knit; we worked well together toward common goals, enjoyed the great outdoors and rural life in general. Our biggest mistake was in thinking that idyllic scenario would continue indefinitely. We were unprepared for the upheaval headed into our lives; unprepared for our neighborhoods being turned into virtual war zones; unprepared for division within our social structure.
The corporate invaders came to our area with empty promises of increased tax receipts, jobs, and constantly ringing cash registers. They painted a beatific picture of “state of the art” facilities, happy hogs, and responsible community improvement. Our city, county, and state officials believed; they welcomed them with open arms. They ignored our concerns; we were called radicals, against progress, irresponsible—and worse.
With much fanfare, they built their huge confinement facilities, filled them with over 80,000 sows, and were praised in the press for their “greater efficiency and modern technology.” We watched in disbelief as the division began. Those living near the facilities were soon gasping at the stench, unable to enjoy an evening under the stars in their own yard; unable to even open their windows lest the stench invade their home.
The additional tax moneys were non–existent or minimal at best; the cash registers did not ring as those companies purchased their goods and services elsewhere; feed, tire, and hardware stores closed. And the animals did not sport the happy smiley faces of contentment, but rather exhibited behavior resembling that of humans with serious psychotic disorders.
Understandably, those unfortunates in the “stink zone” created by over 1.5 million hogs complained bitterly; supporters of the mega–facilities, primarily those living far removed from that “stink zone,” continued to see no problem. Even recurring fish kills from the waste spilling into the rivers we had all enjoyed in years past failed to upset the pro–pig–factory residents of the area; former friends and allies became foes. The community spirit that had been shared was no more.
The hog factory filed bankruptcy and sold the press on the idea that they were in the “best financial shape ever.” Of course they were! They had just written off a $300,000 debt and proclaimed that “no one got hurt!” The victims of this company (which now, some four years later, has never show a real profit) included the electric company, gas company, truckers, construction contractors, investors, and local tax entities. But still, they say, “no one got hurt.”
The hog factories like to call themselves “farms.” They aren’t. They name their sites pretty names like Whitetail, Somerset, Wildwood, South Meadows, Hickory Creek, Hedgewood, and Green Hills. But in the land of hog factories, there are no whitetail deer; no pretty meadows; no leafy trees or wildflowers; and certainly no rolling green hills or pristine creeks. The bulldozers removed all that to made way for the rows and rows of shiny tin buildings and putrid cesspools filled with hog waste. There are “keep out” signs, gates, and roads that are little more than an obstacle course of pot holes—those that the company has not closed to the public.
The definition of a farmer is “steward of the land”— a caretaker. An apt description of a small family farmer who is a responsible steward of the environment in which he lives. The hog factory is little more than a pollution factory; its owner lives hundreds—even thousands of miles away; he cares not for the land, the neighbor, nor the community. Profit is his only interest; money his god. He is an agriculture integrator, interloper, despoiler of the land.
But please don’t call him a farmer!