I was voted “Most Likely to Become a Professional Country Line Dancer” in high school.

This may not seem as prestigious as being voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” but being voted anything out of a class of 365 kids is an accomplishment in my book.

When I look back on my high school career in Madison, Wisconsin, I can’t remember any particular moment of line dancing that earned me the title.

In high school, I was a wannabe. I didn’t want to be a cheerleader, a jock or a “gangsta.” In high school, I was a wannabe farm kid. I wore Wranglers and boots most days. This was not the standard dress for a kid in Madison.

Despite growing up in the host city of World Dairy Expo, my classmates were perfectly content staying totally disconnected from Wisconsin’s ag heritage. I didn’t let that stop me from sitting in English class with manure on my boots.

Horses were my gateway drug. I never tried the illicit drugs that were talked about in our D.A.R.E. classes, probably because I found horses and agriculture instead. Horses led me to an animal science class that my school had started offering my sophomore year.

That class led me to starting an FFA chapter at my high school. That club led me to attending the National FFA Convention.

The night I got back from the convention, I went out to catch up with my friends and met a guy that had recently been voted “Biggest Feet” from his class of 97 kids.

It’s been 16 years since that night, and I’ve been married to Big Foot for the last five years. We farm with his parents: 100 cows, 300 acres, 30 miles from my high school.

Fitting into the dairy community as an outsider has been an experience different from what I expected. I came into the industry knowing zip, zero, zilch about cows or farming, despite my high school ag classes.

OK, maybe I knew a few things – my ag teacher was close to a miracle worker. However, those small kernels of knowledge weren’t going to prepare me for life on a farm.

What I did know when I married my husband and joined the farm was that I didn’t want to be just a “farm wife.” I wanted to be a dairy farmer. I’m simply not the kind of woman who makes lunches and cleans the house while my husband works the fields and milks the cows.

Coming into farm life, I thought that’s what a farm wife was. I hate dishes, vacuuming and folding laundry, so the choice of being in the barn seemed to be a far superior alternative. I can clean the parlor with a fire hose, and that’s my kind of cleaning.

At first my presence on the farm was met with curiosity by salesmen and our vet. Our vet hated that I “clicked” with the cows like they were horses.

I am certain I asked some of the stupidest questions known to mankind as I learned. Instead of being looked at with scorn or disbelief, I was answered with patience and vast amounts of knowledge.

My career as a dairy farmer has been marked by remarkable people who have taken the time to embrace my desire to learn via hundreds of questions. These people have shown genuine excitement that there are in fact people out there that want to dairy farm.

No transition is easy in life – and I won’t lie, I miss being able to get gyros or pizza delivered to my door, especially on those late nights in the barn.

The dairy industry is no longer just a good ol’ boys club. There are more women making the decisions and being the ones with the answers to the questions.

Some of these women were born in the barn, and some were born in the delivery range of a Domino’s. But that’s not what matters when it comes down to it. I find that our industry is embracing this change, and that is something to be proud of.

Thank you to the dairy industry as a whole for allowing me to feel like I fit in and for being welcoming to a city girl who married a dairy farm boy and refused to stay in the house.

Today, I do a balance of housework, paperwork and barn work, and I have a far greater appreciation for the other women in my industry, no matter what roles they fill on their farm.

My horses sit in the pasture in front of my house. At this point they may be the embodiment of the term “hay burner,” but I appreciate looking out at them and remembering just how far this city-girl-turned-dairy-farmer has come, traveling a well-worn path made by the women who have come before me. PD

Carrie Mess
Dairy producer
Johnson Creek, Wisconsin