One comment my husband makes that triggers immediate panic is, “On your way home, can you stop at…”. Despite its apparent simplicity, I have realized over our almost 38 years together that our understanding of geography differs significantly. Whether it is a reflection of his schooling or his career path remains in question.

Typically, his call comes after I’ve run an errand of his choosing, emphasizing the urgency to head in a new direction before doing anything else. Our farm north of Waverly, NE, seemingly becomes an unavoidable waypoint from various starting points. What once seemed like a direct trip from Lincoln to our farm now includes detours to Wahoo, Fremont, Syracuse or even Beatrice. These happen to be the locations of our friendly implement dealer, who consistently stocks a part (often pocket-sized) that we urgently and indispensably need.

Though I may get a lot of window time in the pickup truck, those moments offer me a chance to reflect on the true essence of our livelihood. Every stop along the way introduces me to diverse farmers, each passionately committed to their way of life. Farming isn’t just a job for us; it’s a way of life. I have learned not to question his need for the part, and I’ve come to understand the absolute necessity of always having a full tank of gas.