The year, 1981.  Teresa and I were living in the farmhouse attic with our newborn son, Daniel, who today runs day-to-day operations.  I was a reporter at our local newspaper, the only one on staff who had an interest in farming.  The newsworthy agriculture happening in the area was Hammons Products Company, from Stockton, Missouri, had expanded into Virginia and negotiated a walnut buying station in town at the Southern States feed mill.

                  I went down and talked to the two teenage boys and their fathers about running the station and how it was going.  It was only open on Saturdays, October-November, and the bumper crop overwhelmed everything.  The biggest problem, besides the crush of folks waiting in line that backed up all the way to the highway, was what to do with all the hulls.  I saw an opportunity for free organic matter and sent Dad down with our dump truck to bring home a load.  Next week, another.  

                  I saw the economics of the operation and immediately began imagining operating it.  The feedmill liked the buying operation, but determined that it would require being open 6 days a week the following year.  Who was flexible enough to devote two months in the fall?  That would be me. 

                  Over the next year, I planned my escape from the town job and ability to farm full time. Sept. 24, 1982 was the day.  I had already sold beef by half, whole, and quarter to folks and knew direct marketing with a farm brand was the way to go.  Dad, the accountant, looked at various set-ups and decided a C-corp (LLCs were not used back then) was our best option.  What to name it?

                  He wanted to call it Salatin Inc.  I mean, after all, don't most outfits use the founder's name in the brand?  Perdue.  Tyson.  Ford. Louis Vitton?  But I vehemently opposed the idea.  We'd discuss this while milking our two cows--two Guernseys.  I said "Dad, this is bigger than our family.  There may be a day when a Salatin isn't running this thing."  I wanted it more open-ended, and Dad let me win with Polyface.

                  Remember, this was before I had even made the break from the town job.  I didn't even have proof of concept yet, that this full time farming gig would work.  But I had vision.  Today, this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful that somehow, for some reason, God gave me vision.   

                  The Bible says "without vision, the people perish."  You can tell a lot about a person by having them describe their vision.  As it turns out, most people don't have any vision.  They just skip through life in the shallows.  I don't know why  I had vision.  At the time, most people would say it was cocky over-confidence.  I think it was resolute conviction. 

                  But whatever it was, I had a vision for a farm community on flourishing land serving abundance to the region.  Today, most farmers my age are lonelier than they've ever been.  The kids are gone, aches and pains are here to stay, and society continues its celebrity worship without thinking once where food comes from.  Socially marginalized, physically waning, and labor starved, old farmers nurse depression, irrelevance, and a host of what-ifs.  Living in the past, they pull themselves out of bed in the morning because the farm is what gives them identity.   

                  But here I am, surrounded by 20 bright-eyed, bushy-tailed 20-40 somethings enthusiastically partnering to leverage my experience and wisdom into a golden tomorrow.  No way can I keep up with them.  They buoy me up, make me bounce out of bed, and affirm constantly that this is attractive, righteous, sacred work.  They eagerly look forward to spending their lives doing what I've done.    

                  My favorite possession is a yellowed piece of paper dated 1987 when Dad, from his sick bed, called me into the bedroom to do a brainstorming session about how many salaries this little farm could generate.  Goodness, Teresa and I had just cleared the hurdle, exhaled, and realized "I think we're going to make it."  Dad was already envisioning a future farm community.

                  Ultimately, I don't know where vision comes from.  But today, as Thanksgiving circles its annual contemplative moment around my mind, I'm grateful, tearful, and overwhelmed with the power and possibility of vision.  I'm thankful God gave me vision as a very young man.  And that I had parents with vision.  And that a cadre of the best, brightest, sharpest, most honorable young people surround me each day to push vision forward.  Happy Thanksgiving.  Instead of asking the common question about what you're thankful for, I'm going to ask a different question, because I've learned I have the most thoughtful (for the most part--ha!), wise, and helpful readers of any blogger:   

                  How do you get vision?