Now listen, the one thing about agriculture is we've lost our

Host: The barn was wide open to the morning — light spilling across the fields like liquid gold, the air thick with the smell of hay, soil, and diesel. The tractor engines growled somewhere in the distance, steady and familiar, like the heartbeat of the land itself.

Inside, Jack stood beside an old wooden table, its surface scratched from years of use, sorting through a handful of soybean samples in small mason jars. Jeeny leaned against a post nearby, her notebook tucked under her arm, watching him with quiet curiosity as sunlight caught in the dust motes between them.

The radio played faintly from a corner shelf — an old AM station, static and news. Words about markets, politics, and rain chances filled the air.

Jeeny: softly, reading from her notebook “John Boozman once said, ‘Now listen, the one thing about agriculture is we've lost our manufacturing, we've lost a great deal of jobs overseas, lots of our industry. The last thing in the world we need to do is lose the ability to produce our food.’”

Jack: without looking up, voice rough but thoughtful “That’s not politics. That’s common sense. You lose your soil, you lose your soul.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You make it sound like the two are the same thing.”

Jack: glancing at her, eyes narrowing with warmth “Aren’t they? We can import cars, clothes, phones — hell, even steel. But you can’t import sunrise. You can’t import the smell of fresh-cut wheat.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying in the sound of distant livestock — low, steady, alive. The light in the barn flickered through the open slats, stripes of gold moving across their faces like slow fire.

Jeeny: softly “You think we’re really in danger of losing it — our ability to produce food?”

Jack: nodding slowly “Already are. Every acre that gets paved, every farmer that gives up, every kid that leaves for a desk job in the city — it’s one more thread gone. You pull enough of them, and the whole fabric unravels.”

Jeeny: sighing “But that’s progress, isn’t it? Machines replacing people, convenience over craft?”

Jack: snapping back, but not unkindly “That’s not progress, Jeeny. That’s amnesia.”

Host: The word hung in the air like dust — amnesia — heavy, true, bitter.

Jack walked toward the open doorway, looking out over the fields — rows of corn swaying in the morning breeze, green and endless.

Jack: quietly “My granddad used to say, ‘The day you stop touching the earth is the day you forget who feeds you.’ I didn’t understand it then. Thought he was just an old man stuck in time. Now I get it.”

Jeeny: softly, stepping closer “He meant gratitude.”

Jack: nodding “And responsibility.”

Host: The radio crackled, the voice of a news anchor spilling out: talk of trade deficits, imports, automation — numbers and charts with no dirt under their nails.

Jeeny turned the knob, silencing it. The sudden quiet was filled with the sound of the wind rustling the fields outside — honest, grounding.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You know, I used to think food was just something you bought. Until I came here and saw what it takes. The labor, the waiting, the weather’s mercy.”

Jack: half-smiling “It’s the original faith, Jeeny. You plant, you pray, you endure. There’s no shortcut to growing life.”

Jeeny: thoughtfully “Then losing that… isn’t just losing an industry. It’s losing a kind of morality.”

Jack: turning to her, voice low but firm “Exactly. You can’t separate ethics from earth. Agriculture isn’t just business — it’s covenant.”

Host: The tractor sound drew nearer — a steady hum cutting through the field. Jack watched it for a while, the way a man looks at something he loves but knows might not last.

Jeeny: quietly “You think people in cities understand that?”

Jack: after a pause “Not yet. But they will. The moment shelves go empty, every latte and Wi-Fi signal in the world won’t mean a damn thing.”

Jeeny: softly, almost sadly “It always takes loss for people to remember what sustains them.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. We forget food isn’t just fuel — it’s belonging. You grow it, you connect. You eat what you make, you respect what you take.”

Host: The sunlight brightened suddenly, pouring across the barn floor, igniting the dust in a thousand flecks of gold. Jeeny picked up one of the mason jars, turning it in her hands — the beans catching the light like tiny seeds of truth.

Jeeny: quietly “You know, Boozman’s right. We lost our industries because we sold them. But if we lose the land, it’s because we stopped listening.”

Jack: softly “And the land never shouts. It just disappears.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — tired, hopeful, aware. The wind swept through again, louder now, bending the stalks outside, rippling through the open barn like a breath.

Jeeny: after a long silence “So what do we do?”

Jack: quietly, watching the field “We plant anyway. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like no one’s looking. That’s how civilizations start — and how they’re saved.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “By people who keep feeding the world even when the world forgets to say thank you.”

Jack: smiling back “That’s the job.”

Host: The camera pulled back, framing them in the barn doorway — two silhouettes against a sea of gold. The morning light was rising now, spilling across the land, touching everything alive and fragile.

And as the hum of the tractor blended with the wind, John Boozman’s words found their true soil — spoken not in policy, but in reverence:

When a nation forgets its farmers, it forgets its foundation.
When it trades the soil for screens, it trades its soul for spectacle.
For no empire survives that cannot feed itself —
and no progress endures that outgrows its gratitude.

In the end, all strength begins with a seed.
And all civilization begins with those who dare to plant.