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Read online content from popular columnists, including Ryan Dennis, Baxter Black and Yevet Tenney, as well as comments from Progressive Dairy editors.

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This is a story where the perpetrator must remain anonymous. Hereinafter he shall be called, “He who learns the hard way” or simply, “He Who.” He Who plotted over the long winter days about how to feed corn to a deer for a few weeks to fatten it up. Grain- fed venison, he envisioned. Succulent.

His first step was to procure a deer. Many congregated at his cattle feeder. Positioning himself behind the feeder, he waited, rope in hand. He Who stepped out, threw his loop and caught a doe around the neck. She just stood there and stared at him.

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Pulling up to the faded-red octagon stop sign, I happened to glance up. I saw the most awesome sight. The indigo-violet sunset floating across the horizon was truly impressive. The downy feather clouds seemed to glow with an aura of cool fluorescent hues. Three majestic blue silos completed the stunning picture.

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Success in the military is described like this: A mission progresses by defining the tasks, obtaining the tools necessary to complete the task or tasks and then determining the metric for defining success. The metric, therefore, is attainable at one level and desirable at another.

Generals have used this model for centuries. All military officers strive for the desirable but often will denote success if the task is attained. We might think of the model this way: Something is better than nothing, but it is not quite everything.

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Diversified farming has always been considered a legitimate alternative for farmers and ranchers. Midwestern farmers have done well using corn, soybeans and a pen of feeder steers.

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I was dressed in a long, white sequined gown that glittered and caught the light at every turn. My husband, Reg, wore a white tuxedo, gloves and an elegant tie. My gloved hand rested on his arm as we emerged from the limousine stepping onto the marble entryway of the towering mansion.

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My mechanic has a lot in common with my mother’s doctor. When the steering wheel locked up on my 3/4-ton, 4-speed 1969 Ford F-250 with split rims and a manual choke, we cajoled it down to George’s garage in town. On my truck’s last visit to George’s, he replaced the power steering pump, so I figured I was good for a while but not so! I left it over the weekend with instructions to please fix it.

My sweet mother has had a long relationship with her doctors. They have kept her ticking through the Great Depression, World War II, four children and two husbands, as more than her share of afflictions struck away at her health. She still has an ongoing schedule of doctor’s appointments. Sometimes she has a complaint, or the visit is just for a checkup. But no matter the purpose of the visit, it seems the doctor can always find something that’s not quite right which requires an additional test or pill.

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