Creeping across the pasture land. Got dirt on
the boots and a working hand. From the milk house
home to the auction call. These are the folks
standing strong and tall. Yeah, this is... You're
listening to the Bullvine Podcast, the show that
brings you the stories of a life well -lived
in the world of dairy. Here, we don't just talk
about milk. We talk about legacy, innovation,
and the people who shape the future of agriculture.
In this industry, we often measure success in
pounds of milk, in linear scores, or in dollars
per hundred weight. But the real story of a successful
farm isn't written in ledgers. It's written across
generations in the lines on a father's face and
the promise in a son's eyes. It's about a relentless
pursuit of excellence, even when it looks like
a crazy bet. Today, we're taking you to a place
where a single decision made over 60 years ago
set the stage for a dynasty. We're going to a
quiet farm in Iowa to uncover the Farniar formula.
It's a story about a family who chose to invest
in genetics. when their neighbors chose to play
it safe, and how that one choice continues to
pay dividends today. You may have heard their
names, Tom, Mark, and Adam Simon. You may have
seen their bulls, Farnier Delta Lambda and Farnier
Altitude Red, winning Premier Sire at World Dairy
Expo. But to understand this moment, you have
to go back to a time when a registered Holstein
was an expensive gamble, and the future of dairy
was an unwritten dream. And we're taking you
there, right now. You stand in the cattle barn
at World Dairy Expo, Madison, Wisconsin. October
4th, 2024. The air thrums with nervous energy
as exhibitors pace the aisles, straightening
already perfect halters, brushing coats that
gleam like obsidian. You've been coming to this
show for decades, but tonight feels different.
The Grand Champion presentations are wrapping
up. Your heart pounds as you watch Tom Simon
adjust his position near the show ring. His weathered
hands Steady, despite his age, rest on the rail
where his father Joe once stood 40 years ago.
You know what's coming. The announcement that
will either validate 60 years of calculated risk
-taking or leave another dream unfulfilled on
the sawdust floor. The announcer's voice cuts
through the crowd noise. Ladies and gentlemen,
we're proud to announce this year's premier sires.
Your breath catches. Two bulls. One operation.
Farnier Delta Lambda ET and Farnier Altitude
Red ET. The impossible has happened. But this
moment, this triumph, began with a decision that
neighbors called financial suicide, a choice
made by a stubborn Iowa farmer who believed that
excellence, not economy, would build his legacy.
This is the story of how one family's expensive
mistakes became the dairy industry's blueprint
for success, how strategic thinking over 60 years
built a genetic dynasty, and why the most dangerous
thing in agriculture isn't taking risks. It's
playing it safe. You're driving down a gravel
road in Delaware County, Iowa, 1960. Dust clouds
rise behind your pickup as you pass farm after
farm, each one a family operation carved from
prairie soil by stubborn German and Scandinavian
immigrants. This is dairy country, but not the
kind you'll recognize decades later. The farms
are small, 40, 60 cows at most, grade Holsteins
mostly. Good enough cattle that produce adequate
milk for the local creamery. Most farmers are
content with good enough. Feed the family, pay
the mortgage, maybe take a vacation to the Wisconsin
Dells if corn prices cooperate. You pull into
the Simon Farm, 160 acres that Joe bought after
returning from Korea. The barn is solid but unremarkable.
Red paint, white trim, a gambrel roof that's
seen better decades. The milking parlor holds
16 cows twice daily by hand until Joe grudgingly
installed a pipeline system two years ago. The
agricultural revolution is stirring, but most
farmers can't see it yet. Artificial insemination
is still viewed with suspicion by neighbors who
trust their own bulls. Genetic improvement means
buying a better bull from the neighbor, not shipping
frozen semen from some laboratory hundreds of
miles away. You stand in Joe's kitchen studying
the farm records spread across the oilcloth -covered
table. Milk prices, $0 .320 per hundred weight.
Feed corn, $1 .10 per bushel. A good Holstein
heifer costs $400, more than most farmers make
in a month. The economics are brutal in their
simplicity. Every dollar counts. Every decision
carries weight that can sink a family operation.
This is why your neighbors play it safe. Buy
average genetics, accept average results. But
Joe Simon is studying something else. A thin
catalog from the American Breeder Service, filled
with bulls most farmers can't afford, and genetic
terminology that sounds like science fiction.
You flip through pages showing semen prices that
make your stomach drop. Elite bulls, $15 per
unit. Your neighbors are using $3 semen from
local bulls. The math is simple and terrifying.
Joe is considering genetics that cost five times
the going rate. In the distance, you hear the
evening news on the radio. Kennedy is president.
The Cold War dominates headlines. But here in
rural Iowa, a quieter revolution is beginning,
one that will reshape how America feeds itself.
You're Joe Simon, and it's 4 .30 a .m. on a January
morning in 1961. The temperature outside is 9
-12 degrees F, cold enough that the barn windows
are frosted over in intricate patterns. Your
breath fogs as you begin morning chores, but
your mind is already working through the numbers.
You learned precision in Korea. Every decision
mattered. Every resource counted. You returned
home with discipline that your neighbors mistake
for stubbornness and a conviction that excellence
requires sacrifice. Your father's farm was different.
Good German stock, steady production, never the
highest, never the lowest. Gut is gutgenug, he'd
say. Good is good enough. But standing in this
barn, watching cows that produce 8 ,000 pounds
of milk annually, when you know genetics exist
that could double that production, good enough
feels like surrender. Your wife Helen worries
about the risks. You've had the conversation
over kitchen coffee, her practical concerns battling
your vision of what this farm could become. Eight
registered Holstein heifers will cost $3 ,200,
nearly two years of net income. The neighbors
will think you've lost your mind. But you remember
something from the war. A quartermaster who explained
why the army bought the best equipment, not the
cheapest. It costs the same to feed a soldier
whether he has reliable gear or junk, he said.
The difference is whether he comes home. Standing
in your barn, that principle crystallizes into
farming wisdom. It costs the same to feed a bad
cow as a good cow. The feed bill is identical.
The labor is identical. The only variable is
genetic potential. You've studied the breeding
records from the university extension. Elite
genetics aren't just incrementally better, they're
transformational. A bull that transmits exceptional
udder traits, longevity, production capacity.
His daughters will milk for six lactations instead
of three. They'll produce 14 ,000 pounds instead
of 8 ,000. The mathematics become clear in the
pre -dawn darkness. Premium genetics cost five
times more up front. But spread over a cow's
lifetime, over her daughter's lifetimes, the
investment becomes the cheapest money you'll
ever spend. You make the decision that will define
everything. You'll mortgage tomorrow's security
for today's genetics. You'll buy the best bulls
available, regardless of cost. You'll build a
breeding program on excellence, not economy.
Walking back to the house as dawn breaks over
the Iowa prairie, you feel the weight of what
you've committed to. Your neighbors will call
it reckless. Helen will lose sleep over the finances.
But you've seen what mediocrity produces, and
you refuse to build your life's work on good
enough. You're back in Joe's boots, May 1961.
The American Breeder Service truck pulls into
your farmyard, kicking up dust that settles on
the freshly painted barn. You've waited three
months for this moment, saving every available
dollar for the most expensive breeding program
Delaware County has ever seen. The technician
who steps out carries liquid nitrogen tanks that
cost more than most farmers' monthly grocery
bills. Inside those tanks, frozen in time, are
genetics that represent the cutting edge of dairy
science. Bull semen from animals that have never
set foot on your farm but will father the next
generation of your herd. Your first purchase
makes your hands shake as you sign the check.
Elevation. an elite bull whose daughters average
16 ,000 pounds of milk per lactation. The semen
costs $15 per unit. Your neighbors are using
bulls that cost $3. Standing in the breeding
shed, watching the technician prepare the insemination
equipment, you calculate the risks. Eight cows
to breed, 12 units of semen to ensure conception.
$180 for genetics alone, more than most farmers
spend on seed corn for 40 acres. The process
itself is clinical, scientific, nothing like
the natural breeding your father practiced. But
as you hold each cow steady for insemination,
you're not just breeding cattle, you're investing
in a vision that exists only in genetic potential
and university research papers. Summer 1961 brings
the first test of your conviction. Corn prices
drop to 95s per bushel. Milk prices stagnate.
Your neighbor, Bill Hartman, stops by to discuss
your experiment with artificial insemination.
Joe, that's a lot of money for something you
can't even see, he says, leaning against your
feed bunk. My bull has been working just fine
for eight years, cost me $300, and he's still
producing calves. You explain the genetic mathematics,
how superior bulls transmit traits that compound
over generations. Bill nods politely, but you
see the skepticism in his eyes. He's calculating
the immediate costs. not the long -term returns.
August brings the first pregnancies confirmed.
Your expensive gamble is developing in eight
wombs, each carrying genetic potential that won't
be measurable for two years. You mark your calendar,
February 1964. That's when you'll know if premium
genetics justify premium prices. But autumn brings
sobering reality. Your feed costs are identical
to your neighbors. but your genetic investment
has created a cash flow gap that keeps you awake
at 2 a .m., staring at the ceiling, calculating
and recalculating the numbers. October 1961,
you attend your first Dairy Herd Improvement
Association meeting since beginning your breeding
program. The conversation inevitably turns to
your expensive experiments. Farmers who've known
you since childhood Question your judgment with
the gentle brutality that only neighbors can
deliver. Throwing good money after bad, one suggests.
Fancy genetics don't milk themselves, adds another.
You defend your decisions with facts and figures,
but doubt creeps in during the drive home. The
gravel road stretches endlessly under October
stars, and you wonder if ambition has outpaced
wisdom. December 1961 brings the harshest test
yet. An early blizzard traps you in the barn
for 36 hours, caring for cattle that represent
the largest financial gamble of your life. As
wind howls around the barn and snow drifts against
the doors, you question every assumption. The
pregnant cows stand calmly in their stalls, carrying
the future you've mortgaged everything to create.
In 14 months, you'll know if excellence is worth
the price you've paid for it. You step back from
Joe Simon's individual story and survey the broader
transformation reshaping American agriculture.
It's 1962, and forces beyond any single farm
are converging to revolutionize how America produces
food. At universities across the Midwest, agricultural
scientists are unlocking genetic secrets that
farmers have pursued through crude trial and
error for centuries. The University of Wisconsin
-Madison, Iowa State, Cornell. These institutions
are becoming breeding laboratories where mathematical
precision meets agricultural tradition. You stand
in a university research barn, watching scientists
collect data that will reshape the industry.
Linear trait measurement, production records
analyzed by primitive computers, genetic evaluations
that assign numerical values to breeding potential.
This isn't your grandfather's animal husbandry.
This is agricultural engineering. The numbers
tell an extraordinary story. In 1940, the average
American dairy cow produced 4 ,600 pounds of
milk annually. By 1962, genetic improvement has
pushed that number to 7 ,200 pounds, a 56 % increase
in just over 20 years. But this is only the beginning.
Artificial insemination is transforming genetic
distribution in ways that would have been impossible
just decades earlier. A single superior bull
can now father thousands of offspring across
multiple states, spreading elite genetics at
a pace that natural breeding could never achieve.
You review industry statistics that reveal the
scope of this transformation. In 1950, fewer
than 1 % of American dairy cows were bred through
artificial insemination. By 1962, that number
has jumped to 35 % and climbing rapidly. The
economic implications are staggering. Farmers
who embrace genetic improvement are seeing production
increases that translate to thousands of dollars
in additional annual revenue per cow. Those who
resist are falling behind at an accelerating
rate. But the revolution extends beyond genetics.
Mechanical milking systems, improved nutrition
science, veterinary advances, every aspect of
dairy production is evolving simultaneously.
The farmers who can integrate these improvements
most effectively are positioning themselves to
dominate the next generation of agriculture.
This context makes Joe Simon's expensive genetics
look less like gambling and more like strategic
positioning for an inevitable future. While his
neighbors debate the wisdom of premium semen
prices, the broader industry is moving toward
a reality where genetic excellence becomes the
minimum requirement for survival. You stand at
the crossroads of agricultural history. watching
an industry transform from tradition -based farming
to science -driven production. The farmers who
recognize this shift early will prosper. Those
who cling to the old ways will be left behind
by economic forces beyond their control. You're
Joe Simon again, February 15th, 1964. Three years
since your first expensive breeding decisions,
and today brings the moment of truth. In the
calving pen, Elevation's first daughter takes
her first steps on unsteady legs. She's beautiful,
longer, deeper, with an utter attachment that
suggests the genetic potential you've invested
so heavily to achieve. But beauty doesn't pay
feed bills. You won't know if your gamble succeeded
until she enters her first lactation in two years.
Spring 1964 brings seven more heifer calves from
your elite breeding program. Each one represents
validation of your genetic philosophy, but also
increasing financial pressure. Premium feed for
premium genetics. Enhanced veterinary care. Infrastructure
improvements to house cattle worthy of their
expensive parentage. Your neighbor Bill Hartman
stops by to admire the calves. They're nice -looking
animals, Joe, he admits, running practiced hands
over the heifer's frames. But I could have bought
20 head of good commercial cattle for what you've
got invested in genetics alone. The mathematics
he's referencing are brutal. Your genetic program
has cost $3 ,400 in direct breeding expenses
over three years, enough to purchase a 20 -cow
herd. The indirect costs are equally sobering.
Enhanced facilities, specialized feed, veterinary
consultation that your neighbors consider unnecessary
luxury. Summer 1964. tests your conviction in
ways you never anticipated. A drought withers
your corn crop, forcing you to purchase expensive
feed just as your genetic investments are consuming
every available dollar. Helen's worried conversations
at the kitchen table grow longer and more frequent.
Maybe we're trying to do too much too fast, she
suggests over morning coffee. The Hartmans are
getting by just fine with regular cattle and
regular breeding. You defend your decisions with
facts and figures, but privately, you're calculating
survival scenarios. If the drought continues,
if corn prices climb higher, if milk prices drop,
any combination could force you to abandon the
genetic program that's becoming your life's work.
August brings relief in the form of rain, but
also sobering news from the County Extension
Office. Three dairy operations have ceased production
in the past six months. Farms that were established
before you were born, now silent because their
owners couldn't adapt to changing economic realities.
Fall 1964 presents an unexpected challenge. A
cattle dealer approaches with an offer for your
young breeding stock. Elite genetics that are
attracting attention from larger operations with
deeper pockets. The proposed sale would eliminate
your debt and provide working capital for immediate
farm improvements. Standing in the barn, studying
cattle that represent four years of genetic accumulation,
you face a decision that could determine everything.
Take the immediate financial relief or maintain
your breeding program despite increasing economic
pressure. The dealer's offer is generous, $2
,400 for six heifers, enough to clear your genetic
investment debt and finance normal operations.
But selling these animals means abandoning the
genetic foundation you've sacrificed to build.
You walk among the young stock, evaluating not
just their immediate value, but their genetic
potential. These animals carry genes that could
transform your herd's production capacity for
decades. Selling them for short -term relief
would be trading your future for temporary comfort.
December 1964 brings the hardest winter in eight
years. Heating costs drain resources, while feed
expenses climb weekly. Your genetic gamble has
positioned you at the intersection of maximum
investment and minimum return, the most vulnerable
moment in any long -term strategy. As 1965 dawns,
you face a brutal reality. Your expensive genetics
experiment is entering its most critical phase.
In six months, Elevation's daughters will begin
their first lactations. Everything you've invested
Everything you've risked comes down to whether
these cattle can produce enough milk to justify
their expensive conception. You stand in your
barn at dawn, February 1968, the coldest morning
in three years. Your breath fogs in the frigid
air as you begin morning chores, but your mind
is on larger questions. Eight years into your
genetics program, you've learned things about
breeding, about farming, and about yourself that
you couldn't have anticipated. when this journey
began. The numbers are starting to prove your
theory. Elevation's daughters are producing an
average of 13 ,200 pounds of milk per lactation,
85 % above your herd average from 1960. The genetic
investment that neighbors called reckless is
generating $1 ,400 additional revenue per cow
annually. But success brings its own pressures.
Your son Tom, now 15, helps with morning chores
before school. You watch him handle cattle with
instinctive understanding and wonder if you're
building something he'll want to inherit or a
burden that will trap him in decisions made before
his birth. Dad, Tom asks, adjusting a feed bunk,
why do we spend so much more on breeding than
everyone else? The question cuts deeper than
he realizes. You explain the genetic mathematics,
the long -term vision, the commitment to excellence
over economy, but you wonder if you're teaching
him wisdom. or passing on an obsession that could
consume his future as it's consumed yours. The
community's attitude toward your experiment has
evolved from skepticism to grudging respect to
genuine curiosity. Neighbors who once questioned
your judgment are now asking about your breeding
program. The Dairy Herd Improvement Association
meetings feature your production records as examples
of what's possible with superior genetics. But
recognition brings new pressures. Other farmers
want to purchase offspring from your breeding
program. Genetics companies are interested in
your bulls for artificial insemination. Success
is transforming your small breeding program into
something larger and more complex than you ever
intended. Helen notices the changes in you. You
worry about those cattle more than you worry
about us, she observes during a rare quiet evening.
She's not entirely wrong. The genetic program
has become consuming in ways that extend beyond
economics into personal identity. You've invested
so much, financially, emotionally, spiritually,
in genetic improvement that failure would mean
more than business loss. It would invalidate
the core belief that excellence justifies sacrifice,
that long -term vision trumps short -term security.
Winter evenings find you in the barn long after
chores are finished. studying cattle that carry
your genetic selections forward into an uncertain
future. Each animal represents decisions made
years earlier when you couldn't predict market
conditions, weather patterns, or family dynamics
that would shape their productive lives. The
weight of generational farming settles on your
shoulders like winter cold that penetrates despite
the warmest clothing. Your father built this
farm with steady, conservative decisions that
prioritized stability over growth. You're transforming
it into something he wouldn't recognize, a genetics
laboratory where every breeding decision carries
implications for decades. Tom will graduate high
school in three years. He'll face choices about
college, about farming, about whether to continue
the genetic program that's defining his inheritance.
You wonder if you're giving him opportunity or
obligation, freedom. or a burden he'll carry
for his entire working life. Walking back to
the house under February stars, you understand
that genetic improvement is more than scientific
breeding. It's a form of faith. Faith that excellence
matters more than economy. Faith that long -term
vision justifies short -term sacrifice. Faith
that the future will reward decisions the present
can't fully appreciate. You're Joe Simon. March
1974. and the agricultural world is shifting
beneath your feet. The oil embargo has triggered
an economic crisis that's rippling through rural
America like a ground fire. Diesel fuel has doubled
in price. Fertilizer costs have tripled. The
comfortable assumptions that guided your breeding
program for 13 years are crumbling. Your breeding
program has produced exactly what you envisioned,
cattle that consistently outproduce their contemporaries
by 40%. But high -producing cattle require high
input management, premium feed, enhanced veterinary
care, sophisticated facilities. All the expenses
that make genetic excellence profitable are now
inflation casualties. The bank meeting that changes
everything takes place on a gray March afternoon
in Cedar Rapids. You sit across from a loan officer
who's known your family for 20 years, but now
studies your financial statements with new scrutiny.
Joe, I'll be straight with you. he says, shuffling
papers that represent your life's work reduced
to numbers. Your breeding program is impressive,
but it's also expensive. We're seeing a lot of
operations scale back on specialty inputs right
now. The numbers he presents are sobering. Your
genetic investments total $47 ,000 over 13 years,
more than many farmers earn in five years of
operations. The return on investment is documented,
measurable. but requires continued capital investment
that the current economic climate makes problematic.
What are you suggesting, you ask, though you
already know the answer. Simplify, he responds.
Scale back the genetics program. Use more conventional
breeding until economic conditions stabilize.
Your production records prove you can farm profitably
without the expensive inputs. Driving home through
the Iowa countryside, you pass farms that are
implementing exactly what your banker suggested
operations that are scaling back playing it safe
waiting for better economic conditions the conservative
approach that your father would have understood
that evening you spread your records across the
kitchen table production data genetic evaluations
financial projections breeding plans that extend
five years into an uncertain future helen studies
the numbers with you but her silence communicates
volumes. We could sell the young bulls, she suggests
quietly. The genetics companies are still interested.
Use that income to reduce debt and weather this
crisis. The bulls she's referencing represent
the culmination of your genetic program, young
sires whose daughters could transform breeding
programs across the Midwest. Selling them would
provide immediate financial relief. but abandon
the genetic progress you've spent 13 years accumulating.
Tom, now 21 and actively involved in farm operations,
offers his perspective during evening chores.
Dad, maybe we should hedge our bets, he suggests.
Keep the core genetic program, but scale back
the intensity until economics improve. Standing
in the barn among cattle that represent more
than genetics, they represent 13 years of conviction,
sacrifice, and strategic vision. you face the
most critical decision of your farming career.
The safe choice is obvious. Scale back, reduce
expenses, wait for better economic conditions.
Your neighbors are making exactly these decisions.
Your banker recommends it. Your wife supports
it. The mathematics favor it. But you remember
why you started this genetic program. Not for
short -term profits or social approval, but because
excellence requires sacrifice that most people
won't make. The economic crisis is testing whether
your commitment to genetic improvement extends
beyond comfortable circumstances. April 1974
brings a decision point that will define everything
that follows. A genetics company offers $28 ,000
for your three best young bulls, enough to eliminate
debt and restore financial stability. The offer
expires in 10 days. You have seven days to choose
between financial security and genetic continuity.
Between the safe path that ensures survival and
the risky path that could secure generational
success or generational failure. You're standing
in your barn at 5 a .m., April 12th, 1974. Today
is decision day. The genetics company's offer
expires at noon, and you've spent seven sleepless
nights weighing options that extend far beyond
immediate economics. The three young bulls in
question stand quietly in their pens, unaware
they represent a crossroads between security
and ambition. Far near mark elevation, far near
master plan, far near genetic pride, names you
gave them as calves, believing they would carry
your genetic program into the future. You've
run the numbers dozens of times. Selling the
bulls provides immediate debt relief and working
capital for normal operations. Your breeding
program could continue with less expensive genetics,
producing adequate results without the financial
pressure that's kept you awake for months. But
as you feed cattle whose genetic potential exceeds
anything your neighbors own, you confront the
fundamental question that's driven every decision
for 13 years. Is excellence worth the price it
demands? Tom joins you for morning chores, and
together you work through the familiar routine.
He's been accepted to Iowa State's agricultural
program, but has indicated he might defer enrollment
to help with farm operations during the economic
crisis. What are you thinking, Dad? he asks as
you adjust feed bunks. You explain the decision
parameters, the financial implications, the long
-term consequences of choosing security over
genetic progress. Tom listens with the attention
of someone who will inherit whatever you decide.
What would Grandpa have done? he asks. Your father
would have sold the bulls without hesitation.
He believed in steady progress, manageable risks,
decisions that prioritized family security over
business growth. His approach built the foundation
you've been expanding, but it wouldn't have created
the genetic program that now defines your operation.
Grandpa made decisions that got us this far,
you tell Tom, but this decision determines where
we go from here. As morning progresses, you complete
the familiar tasks that have structured your
life for 14 years. Milking cattle whose production
exceeds industry averages by 45%. Feeding genetics
that consistently outperform their contemporaries.
Managing a breeding program that neighboring
farmers study and genetics companies court. The
phone call that changes everything comes at 9
.30 a .m. the genetics company representative
confirming details for the sale transaction that
everyone expects you to complete. We'll need
to collect the bulls by 3 p .m., he explains.
Transport truck will be there at 2 .30. You'll
have your check before 4. You hang up and walk
back to the barn where the bulls that represent
13 years of genetic accumulation wait in pens
that could be empty by evening. Standing among
cattle that carry genes selected for excellence
rather than economy, you understand that this
choice will define not just your genetic program,
but your identity as a farmer. Will you be remembered
as someone who built something extraordinary
or someone who played it safe when extraordinary
became expensive? At 11 .45 a .m., you call the
genetics company back. I appreciate the offer,
you tell the representative. but the bulls aren't
for sale. The decision resonates through the
barn like thunder. You've chosen genetic continuity
over financial security, long -term vision over
short -term comfort. The economic crisis will
have to be weathered through other strategies.
Tom, who overheard the phone call, joins you
in the bullpen. So we're keeping them? We're
keeping them, you confirm. This breeding program
isn't just about cattle. It's about believing
that excellence matters more than convenience.
That afternoon, you implement alternative strategies
for managing the economic crisis. Deferred maintenance,
reduced equipment purchases, careful expense
management that preserves the genetic program
while maintaining operational stability. The
decision to keep the bulls reverberates beyond
economics. It signals to your family, your community,
and yourself that some things are worth preserving
regardless of cost. That genetic progress justifies
present sacrifice. You're Joe Simon, October
1978, four and a half years after the decision
that nearly broke your financial resolve. Today
brings vindication in the form of production
records that exceed every projection you made
during those dark nights in 1974. The three bulls
you refused to sell have produced daughters that
are revolutionizing your herd. Far Near Mark
Elevation's daughters average 16 ,400 pounds
of milk per lactation, 95 % above county averages.
Master Plan's offspring combine production with
longevity that promises six lactations instead
of three. More importantly, other farmers are
noticing. The Dairy Herd Improvement Association
meetings now feature your operation as a case
study in genetic progress. Neighbors who once
questioned your expensive breeding decisions
are requesting semen from your young bulls. Tom,
now graduated from Iowa State with a degree in
animal science, brings modern genetic evaluation
techniques to the breeding program you built
through intuition and conviction. Together, you're
analyzing data that validates every expensive
decision made over 18 years. Dad, look at these
projected transmitting abilities, Tom says, spreading
computer printouts across the kitchen table.
Our bulls are ranking in the top 5 % nationally
for production, longevity, and functional type.
The numbers he's showing represent genetic progress
that will compound over generations. Bulls whose
semen is being requested by breeding programs
across the Midwest, genetics that began with
your expensive gambles in 1961. The economic
validation is equally impressive. Your high -producing
genetics have generated additional revenue that
more than justifies every expensive breeding
decision. The $47 ,000 invested in genetic improvement
over 18 years has produced additional income
exceeding $180 ,000. But the personal validation
matters more than economics. Walking through
your barn, you see cattle that embody principles
you've maintained against skepticism, economic
pressure, and safer alternatives. Every animal
represents choices made for long -term excellence
rather than short -term convenience. Helen notices
the change in your demeanor. You're different
now, she observes during a quiet evening, more
settled, like you've proven something important
to yourself. She's right. The genetic program
has evolved from expensive experiment to proven
strategy, from risky gamble to foundation for
generational success. Community recognition arrives
in unexpected forms. The County Extension Office
requests your operation for educational tours.
Agricultural students visit to study genetic
improvement programs. Your breeding philosophy
becomes curriculum at Iowa State. Tom's involvement
brings new perspectives that complement your
experience -based wisdom. He introduces genetic
evaluation software, reproductive technologies,
breeding strategies that accelerate progress
while maintaining the excellent standards you
established. October 1978 concludes with an achievement
that validates every sacrifice, your first home
-bred bull accepted by a major artificial insemination
company. Farnair Mark Genetic Pride will distribute
your genetics to dairy operations across North
America. Standing in your barn as autumn settles
over Iowa, you understand that genetic improvement
isn't just about cattle. It's about believing
in principles that extend beyond immediate circumstances.
Excellence requires sacrifice that most people
won't make, but rewards that sacrifice over time
scales that most people can't envision. You're
Tom Simon now, October 4th, 2024, watching the
announcement that caps 63 years of genetic commitment.
Two premier sires from one breeding program,
Farnier Delta Lambda ET and Farnier Altitude
Red ET, represent genetic progress that began
with your father's expensive gambles in 1961.
The journey from Joe's first $15 semen purchases
to today's premier sire recognition encompasses
technological revolutions, economic crises, and
generational changes that have transformed agriculture
beyond recognition. But the core principle remains
unchanged. Excellence justifies whatever it costs.
Delta Lambda's success exemplifies everything
your father envisioned. Commercial dairies embraced
his genetics first. proving functional excellence
before show ring recognition followed. Lambda's
daughters produce exceptional volumes while maintaining
structural soundness that ensures six lactation
productive lives. The numbers that define modern
success would have seemed impossible to your
father. Genomic evaluations that predict genetic
potential from DNA analysis, reproduction technologies
that multiply elite genetics across global markets,
breeding programs managed through artificial
intelligence and precision agriculture. But standing
in the barn your father built, surrounded by
cattle whose genetics trace to his original decisions,
you understand that technology has simply accelerated
principles he established decades earlier. Invest
in the best genetics available. Maintain long
-term vision despite short -term pressures. Choose
excellence over economy. Your son Mark and nephew
Adam represent the fourth generation of genetic
stewardship, bringing perspectives that complement
tradition with innovation. They manage genomic
data that reveals genetic relationships your
father could only guess at, but they apply it
through breeding philosophies he established.
The breeding program has evolved into something
larger than individual success. Far near genetics
influence breeding decisions across six continents.
Bulls developed in your Iowa barn, are improving
production efficiency in New Zealand, heat tolerance
in Australia, component production in Europe.
Recognition extends beyond cattle achievements.
Agricultural universities study your breeding
program as a model for long -term genetic improvement.
The strategies your father pioneered are now
standard practice in progressive breeding programs
worldwide. But the personal legacy matters most.
Walking through facilities that house cattle
worth more than entire farms, you remember Joe's
fundamental wisdom. It costs the same to feed
a bad cow as a good cow. Everything else follows
from that insight. The genetic program that nearly
broke your family's finances in 1974 now generates
revenue that sustains not just your operation,
but influences global breeding strategies. Excellence,
maintained through decades of sacrifice, has
created generational impact that extends far
beyond original intentions. October 4th, 2024
represents more than premier sire recognition.
It validates 63 years of choosing difficult paths
because they led toward genetic progress. Of
maintaining conviction when neighbors counseled
compromise. Of believing that excellence, regardless
of cost, creates value that compounds across
generations. You stand in the same barn where
Joe Simon made his first expensive breeding decisions
in 1961, but everything has changed except the
fundamental principle that drives genetic improvement.
Excellence costs more than mediocrity, but excellence
is the only investment that pays generational
dividends. The dairy industry of 2024 faces challenges
Joe couldn't have imagined. Climate change, sustainability
pressures, global market volatility, regulatory
complexity, consumer demands that extend beyond
milk production to environmental stewardship
and animal welfare. But the Farniar formula remains
relevant because it addresses the timeless challenge
every farmer faces, choosing between short -term
security and long -term excellence, between decisions
that ensure survival and decisions that create
legacy. Modern dairy producers studying the Farniar
story understand that genetic improvement is
ultimately about faith. Faith that excellence
matters. Faith that long -term vision justifies
short -term sacrifice. Faith that future generations
will benefit from decisions poor, present circumstances
make difficult. The mathematical principles Joe
discovered remain unchanged by technological
advancement. Premium genetics still cost more
than average genetics. Genetic progress still
requires patience that extends beyond quarterly
profit statements. excellence still demands sacrifice
that most people won't make. Today's breeding
technologies, genomic selection, reproductive
engineering, artificial intelligence, simply
accelerate genetic progress while maintaining
principles established in Iowa barns 60 years
ago. The tools evolve, but the wisdom remains
constant. Standing among cattle whose genetic
potential exceeds anything Joe could have envisioned,
you understand that breeding improvement isn't
just about cattle. It's about believing in principles
that transcend immediate circumstances. That
excellence, pursued with conviction and maintained
through difficulty, creates value that compounds
across time scales that individual lifetimes
can't fully measure. The Farnier formula continues
because each generation faces the same fundamental
choice. Invest in excellence despite immediate
costs, or accept mediocrity because it's financially
comfortable. The farmers who choose excellence,
who maintain that choice through economic pressure
and social skepticism, build legacies that influence
industries. The premier sire recognition that
concluded Joe's story becomes the beginning of
challenges his great -grandchildren will face.
Different technologies, different markets, different
pressures, but identical opportunities to choose
excellence over economy, long -term vision over
short -term comfort. The Farnier formula endures
because it addresses the eternal agricultural
question. What are you willing to sacrifice today
to build something extraordinary for tomorrow?
In barns across Iowa and around the world, that
question awaits each farmer's answer. And that's
the story of the Farnier formula. It's a reminder
that a commitment to excellence, no matter the
cost, is the most valuable investment a producer
can make. The Simons story isn't just about one
family's success. It's a blueprint for anyone
in agriculture. It's a testament to the power
of a long -term vision in an industry often defined
by short -term volatility. Thank you for joining
us on this journey. For more stories about the
people, the genetics, and the innovations shaping
our industry, visit thebullvine .com. Until next
time, keep breeding for the future. And remember,
it costs the same to feed a bad cow as a good
cow.