A true story of dust, disbelief, and suspiciously accurate weather predictions
Spring has officially arrived in northwest Iowa, and you can tell because the wind is no longer gently blowing—it’s now aggressively slapping faces, flipping lawn chairs, and knocking over garbage cans like it has a personal vendetta.
This is my first full spring living on the farm. Before this, I was more of a casual farm guest—the type who swung by to deliver forgotten headphones or drop the kids off for a quick tractor ride while I waited safely in the car, sipping coffee and avoiding mud like it was contagious. I had heard about the chaos of spring prep, but I had not lived it.
Until now.
The first thing I’ve learned? The farm doesn’t just leap into action. Spring prep is more of a dramatic slow build, where every single piece of equipment gets taken apart for reasons that are… still a bit of a mystery to me. It’s not that anything’s broken—everything seems to work just fine—but apparently, that’s not the point. Machines are disassembled, inspected, and carefully cleaned (often with a wire toothbrush, which feels both intense and oddly specific), and then reassembled with the kind of focus usually reserved for surgeons.
I’d heard about this tradition before, but until this year, I hadn’t experienced it firsthand. I always imagined it was just a bit of tinkering, maybe a quick check of the oil, and then off they’d go. Turns out, it’s a little more involved. And while I still don’t entirely understand the why, I can tell there’s a method and a rhythm to it—something about starting the season off right, in a way that clearly matters.
So I have to ask: Does every farmer do this? Or is this just our family’s thing? Or maybe it’s my husband’s clever way of avoiding fixing that broken window I’ve been mentioning since January? Or maybe it’s a time-honored family tradition passed down through generations—one that just so happens to conveniently delay the “honey-do list” from the ladies of the house?
The new teenage farmhand, who has historically shown signs of physical distress when asked to carry in groceries, has suddenly discovered motivation. He’s up early. He’s wiping off tools with purpose. He’s volunteering to help without being bribed. It’s like something in the air (probably dirt) has flipped a switch. I’m not saying he’s aiming for Employee of the Month, but it’s clear the farm has a mysterious power—possibly fueled by diesel and the desire to escape his allegedly annoying little sister.
I’m learning so much these days—new routines, new tools, new words that I’m pretty sure aren’t even real (but apparently are). Some lessons come with dirt under your nails, some with a side-eye from a seasoned farmer when you ask, “Wait… that does what again?”
And then there are the lessons you don’t expect—like how you’re actually supposed to predict the weather. Not by checking the weather app I’ve relied on for so many years, but by listening to farmers’ stories and hearing their lessons from years and years past. Apparently, forecasting out here isn’t just a skill—it’s practically a sixth sense.
Back in December, after several foggy mornings around Christmas, someone casually told me, “You just wait. All that fog? That means it’s going to be wet in 90 days.”
Naturally, I assumed they were joking. Fog math didn’t exactly sound scientific. But I wrote it on the calendar anyway—because apparently I’ve become that person. And sure enough…
Ninety days later: We got moisture.
Actual, predicted moisture. And suddenly I realized that rural weather forecasting isn’t about satellites or radar. It’s about generational instincts, twitchy knees, and that one neighbor who always “just has a feeling.” And the unnerving part? They’re usually right.
So here I am. Living on a farm. Learning about fog prophecies. Watching equipment get lovingly taken apart for reasons no one can quite explain. Wondering if this is all completely normal, or if my family is just really into spring prep. I have dirt in places I didn’t know dirt could reach, and I’m still not entirely sure what half the tools are for—and it’ll likely take me years to pronounce them—but I’m learning. And for the first time, I’m actually a little excited for planting season.
Because as surprising as it is, my farming family knows something I didn’t until now: there’s awe in the air this time of year. You can feel it. It smells like fresh earth and grease and hope.
And honestly, the only thing that could make this year’s prep for “go time” even better… is a plate of crispy bacon for a snack.