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... Welcome
back to the Bullvine Podcast. Today we are sharing
a story that, quite honestly, it stopped us in
our tracks. It really did. Usually when we dig
into the dairy industry, we're looking at genomic
charts or we're, you know, analyzing the latest
volatility in milk futures. We look at the what?
Right. The data. The data. But today we're looking
at the who. And I don't mean the glossy profile
version of The Who. I mean the version that exists
at four in the morning when the machinery breaks
and the lights flicker. That is the only version
that really matters in the end. It's not a story
about record -breaking milk prices or, you know,
the latest genetic breakthrough that's going
to change all the index lists. No. It's about
something much quieter and, frankly, much heavier.
I want you to picture the silence of a barn when
things go wrong. We all know the sounds of a
healthy dairy, the vacuum pumps humming, the
scrapers moving, the rhythm of cattle eating,
you know, the headlocks clicking. It's a mechanical
heartbeat. It is. It's a heartbeat. But there
is a specific kind of silence that happens when
the luck runs out. And that's the kind of silence
that rings in your ears a lot longer than the
noise ever does. Yeah. And honestly, this conversation
we're about to have. This is the kind of talk
that reminds you why you got into dairy in the
first place. Or maybe more importantly, why you
stay. Exactly. Why you stay. Because we often
talk about the what of farming. The rations,
the equipment, the protocols. But today we are
talking about the people who show up when the
bottom falls out. So we are diving into a piece
titled Steady Hands. The people who keep the
barn lights on. It focuses on the stories of
four national dairy shrine pioneers, Don Siept,
Bud Schultz, Bill Hansel, and Peter Vail. And
right away, that word pioneers, it brings up
a certain image. It does. Usually when you hear
pioneers, you think of awards ceremonies, shiny
plaques, lists of accomplishments. But the mission
of this deep dive is different. We aren't here
to list their accolades. Not at all. We're going
to look at the kitchen table reality of their
lives. We're talking about how they survived
droughts that wiped out crops three years in
a row. Three years. Three years. And dispersals
where neighbors stood by with their hands in
their pockets. And personal tragedies that would
have broken lesser men. And the key theme here
isn't that these men were supermen. It's that
they weren't alone. They survived because of
the steady hands around them. The spouses, the
neighbors, the community members who refused
to let them fail in isolation. It's a reminder
that the barn lights stay on because someone
else helped keep them on. It's that simple and
it's that profound. So let's get right into the
moment that really anchors this whole discussion.
It's a story from Don Sapet, a name that, I mean,
it eventually became legendary in the Holstein
world with Keystone Farm. Oh, absolutely. A household
name. But before the legend, there was just a
morning in Pennsylvania. And I really want you
to visualize this. It's early. There had been
a storm the night before. Thunder, lightning.
The kind of weather that makes you sleep with
one eye open. Yeah, the kind that rattles the
windows. Exactly. Don walks out to the pasture,
probably expecting a few downed branches or maybe
a muddy lane. The usual cleanup. But he sees
something else entirely. There was a wire fence
near a stone wall, right where some wild grapes
were growing. And because of that storm, lightning
had struck that wire. And the result was, it
was just devastating. Eight cows dead. Just like
that. And let's be crystal clear for everyone
listening. These weren't just inventory numbers
on a spreadsheet. No, not at all. These were
personalities. These were animals the family
worked with every single day. One of them. One
of them was a four -year -old cow that had just
been the reserve grand champion at the Harrisburg
show. Okay, let's pause there. For those outside
the showroom, let me just translate the gravity
of that. Please do. A reserve grand champion
at a show like Harrisburg isn't just a pretty
cow. That is a foundational animal. That's the
kind of cow you build a herd around for the next
decade. It's your future. It is your future.
She represents thousands of hours of breeding
decisions, care, feed, hope, all of it. To lose
her is like having a masterpiece you've been
working on for years just wiped out in a split
second. You know, in the interview, Don talks
about that morning, and he says this line that
just, it hits you right in the gut. He says,
that was a sad day when those eight cows didn't
come in the barn in the morning and you go out
and... It's that, yeah. It is. That pause, that
is the farmer translation for heartbreak you
can't really put into words. It's that feeling
when you walk out the door and the air just feels
different, you know? Yeah, you know something's
wrong. You know something is wrong before you
even see it. It's a physical blow. You just stand
there and think, I did everything right. And
nature still, it still took them. It really is.
And the aftermath of that, it wasn't just the
financial loss, though. I mean, let's be real.
Losing eight cows, including a champion, is a
massive financial hit. Oh, huge. Crippling for
some. But it was the emotional weight of it,
the empty stalls, the silence we talked about
at the beginning. Yeah. But this is where the
story pivots from tragedy to what this episode
is really about. This is the core of it. It's
about the reaction. Right. Because what happened
next wasn't a government grant or a bank loan.
It was the community. The way the neighbors responded
is exactly what we mean when we talk about rural
resilience. There were no big speeches. No. Nobody
came over and gave a lecture on lightning safety
or, you know, what they should have done. No.
They just showed up. They showed up. Neighbors
arrived with casseroles, just walking into the
kitchen and putting food on the table so the
family didn't have to think about cooking. Which
sounds small, but it's not. Yeah. It's taking
one burden off their plate when they feel like
they're carrying the weight of the world. A fellow
breeder called up and offered a heifer to fill
a row. Just here, take this. We'll figure it
out later. And that's a massive gesture. A breeder
giving up a heifer that's giving away genetics.
It's giving away potential income. But it's that
unstoken code. People at the local diner were
passing a hat around the coffee corner to help
with the feed bill. Little things, big things.
All of it. And that's the key insight here. When
you look back at that tragedy, the memory isn't
just about the dead cows. The enduring memory
is the quiet way people showed up. The barn lights
at Keystone stayed on because the community acted
as a buffer against the disaster. They became
the shock absorbers. That's a great way to put
it. It's that unspoken rule of the dairy fraternity.
When one guy is down, the rest of us brace him
up. It's incredible, and it really sets the stage
for understanding who these men really were.
Because when we look at National Dairy Shrine
pioneers, we tend to view them through the lens
of their success. We see the after picture, the
awards, the legacy. But the source material,
it forces us to rewind. We need to see them as
they started, as uncertain kids, not... not these
untouchable icons. That is so, so important.
We suffer from survivor bias when we look at
history. We think these guys were destined for
greatness. Right, that it was inevitable. Yeah,
but look at Don Sipes' start. He wasn't born
a legend. He was a farm kid in the late 1940s.
There's this great story about him at the Waterloo
Fairgrounds. I love this story. He's just judged
with his team. They place fourth, which is respectable,
but not, you know, winning. He's ready to get
on the bus and go home to chores. He still smells
like the barn. I love that detail. He smells
like the barn. He's probably tired, just wanting
to get back to his comfort zone. But his coach,
a guy named Max Dowdy, does something that changes
the trajectory of his life. He sees the bigger
picture. He does. He doesn't just put them on
the bus. He says, come along with me, and takes
them to an old farmhouse on the edge of the grounds.
And inside that farmhouse is the absolute royalty
of the dairy industry at the time. I mean, we're
talking Dean Kildee, Gene Myers, Bill Knox. These
are the guys whose names Don had only seen in
print in the Holstein World magazine. Did you
imagine? You can just feel the imposter syndrome
kicking in there. You're a kid. Your boots are
probably dusty. And suddenly you're shaking hands
with the giants of your world. But that's the
lesson, isn't it? It is. Mac's daddy made that
introduction. He built a bridge. He didn't have
to. It would have been easier to just go home.
But he took the time. And Don said it was a big
deal for a kid from Pennsylvania. It made the
industry feel smaller, more accessible. It planted
a seed that he, you know, that he belonged in
that room. Exactly. And then you contrast Don's
story with Bill Hansel's origin. I mean, if Don
had a foot in the door, Bill was starting from
absolute scratch. Not even on the same planet.
We are talking about milking 10 cows by hand.
By hand. Walking two miles to school. This is
the definition of humble beginnings. And then
the hardship hits him hard. The Depression, and
then brucellosis wipes out his father's herd.
That is just a devastating one -two punch. Economic
depression plus a disease outbreak. That's enough
to make anyone quit agriculture forever. It is.
And let's pause on brucellosis for a second.
For our listeners who didn't live through that
era, can you just explain the magnitude of that
disease? Yeah, sure. Brucellosis, or Bang's disease
as they call it, causes contagious abortion in
cattle. So you feed a cow all year, you get her
bread, you're counting on that calf and that
new lactation, and then she loses the calf. So
no calf means no fresh milk cycle. Exactly. It
literally stops the production line. For Bill's
father, losing the herd meant losing the entire
livelihood. It wasn't a setback. It was a catastrophe.
It is. But look at the ripple effect. Bill Hansel
went from that heartbreak. From sitting on a
bucket milking 10 cows by hand to becoming a
scientist whose research on estrous synchronization
is used on 4000 cow dairies today. And we need
to really appreciate the technical leap here.
I mean, the sheer scale of that jump. Before
Hansel, getting a cow pregnant was a waiting
game. You were on the cow's schedule. You were
completely on her schedule. You had to watch
for standing heat. Yeah. You had to physically
stand there and observe the cows for signs of
estrus. Yeah. If you missed it, if you blinked,
you lost 21 days. Which is a lot of lost production.
Hugely inefficient and relied entirely on human
vigilance. It was the bottleneck of every dairy.
And Bill changed that. He changed the entire
paradigm. He developed the science that lets
us synchronize the cow's cycles. So instead of
waiting for the cow to tell us she's ready. We
can use hormones to reset the cycle and breed
entire groups of cows on our schedule. It's about
control and efficiency. It's everything. Every
time a modern dairy farmer sets up an OMSINCH
protocol or any timed AI protocol, they're benefiting
from the curiosity of a kid who watched his dad's
herd get wiped out and wondered, there has to
be a better way. It's a powerful reminder that
every breakthrough, every big innovation, it
starts with a real world problem that needs solving.
Now, I want to move to a story that I think is
going to resonate deeply with anyone who has
ever stared at a weather forecast and just prayed
for rain. We need to talk about Peter Vail. Oh,
man. Peter's story is the classic sink or swim
moment. His dad tells him, go make your own way.
That's some tough love right there. It is. So
Peter goes north, buys a farm and does it with
100 percent borrowed money. He is leveraged to
the hilt. All in. No safety net. No safety net
whatsoever. And then the 1960s drought hits.
And this is the crucial part. And not just a
dry summer. Three consecutive years of drought.
Let me put my farmer translator hat on for a
second here. Because drought can sound like an
abstract word. Please break it down. Three years
of drought isn't just about bad crops. It's a
feeling. It's watching the corn roll up tight
like onion spikes by 10 in the morning. A sign
of extreme stress. Extreme stress. It's walking
out into a field that should be lush and green
and hearing it crunch under your boots in July.
It's counting every single bale of hay in the
mow in August and knowing it's not enough to
get to May. let alone next year. The math doesn't
work. The math doesn't work. It's the sleepless
nights doing that math on the back of an envelope.
Feed bills versus milk checks. And the numbers
just don't add up no matter how you look at them.
It is a slow motion car crash that lasts for
36 months. That is an incredibly vivid and painful
picture. And it leads to the inevitable. February
1964. Peter has to hold a dispersal sale. The
end of the line. The imagery here is heartbreaking.
It's bitter cold. There are snow banks piled
up against the fence lines. And the neighbors
are driving in. That scene. The neighbors. Some
are there to buy. Sure, they need cows. But some
are just there standing with their hands in their
pockets. Why? What are they doing? They are bearing
witness. It's a funeral for a dream. It's a sign
of respect. They're there to say, we see you.
We see what this costs you. It's a quiet, rural
way of showing support. And the kicker, the absolute
gut punch. After selling everything, the cows,
the machinery, the buckets, every last thing,
Peter was still short on the bank loan. So he
didn't even break even. He walked away with less
than nothing. He walked away with debt. Wow.
But this is where Peter's character and the theme
of this whole deep dive really shines through.
Instead of bitterness, instead of blaming the
world or the weather, he said, I thought that
was really good for that time of year. He laughed
about it. He actually laughed about it later.
He refused to be broken by it. It was this incredible
display of just pure resilience. That is a mindset
that is hard to comprehend. But again, and this
is so important. He didn't do it alone. He didn't
get through that in a vacuum. And this brings
us to the silent partners. Yes. We cannot tell
these stories without talking about the spouses,
the women who often get left out of the official
bios, but who are the absolute backbone of the
entire operation. Absolutely. Let's talk about
Jerry Seept. In the history books, you know,
she might just be listed as Don's wife, but on
the farm. She was the anchor. The center of gravity.
Totally. She started feeding calves at four years
old. This wasn't a job she took on. It was part
of her DNA. She wasn't just helping out. She
was the calf lady, the record keeper, the nurse.
And the detail about the DHIA tester. really
stood out to me me too the tester comes late
at night slipping and sliding on the winter roads
and jerry is the one who knows the book she knows
the service hires the calving dates the intricate
web of the herd's genetics coal better than anyone
better than anyone and when mastitis flared up
in a prize cow she was the one stripping out
the quarter patiently repeatedly doing the unglamorous
work that saves a cow the argument the source
makes is so compelling Don could go to board
meetings. He could become a leader in the Holstein
Association only because Jerry was in the lane
every single day. She bought him the time. She
bought him the time to be a leader. She was running
the home front so he could go out and build the
legacy. It's the same with Myra Schultz. Bud
Schultz was an academic moving from Wisconsin
to Minnesota to Cornell and back. I mean, that's
a nomadic life. It is. And it's disruptive. It's
incredibly disruptive. Myra was the root system.
Every time they moved, she had to find the new
church, the new school, make the new friends,
set up the new household. She reset the social
fabric of the family over and over again so Bud
could focus on his research. It's the role of
the trailing spouse, which is such an inadequate
term. It implies they are behind, but in reality,
they're often carrying the heaviest load to keep
the family unit functional. 100%. Without Myra
and Jerry, those men don't become pioneers. They
just become guys who couldn't balance work and
life. The whole structure depends on those steady
hands at home. I want to fast forward a bit in
Peter Vail's life because we talked about his
failure, the dispersal. But his success later
in life is defined by a moment of incredible
integrity. This is such a powerful story. He's
working in the corporate world now, in the ag
sector, dealing with fertilizer and feed. And
the corporate office decides to close his regional
branch. This is a test of character. It's easy
to be a good leader. when milk is $25 a hundredweight,
or when sales are up. It is incredibly hard to
be a good leader when the ship is sinking. Incredibly
hard. And what does he do? Peter calls his 13
employees in. He doesn't hide it. He doesn't
sugarcoat it. He tells them the truth immediately.
He respects them enough to give them the hard
news straight. And then he makes a promise. A
promise that just... It's amazing. He says, I'm
not going until you all have jobs. That gives
me chills just hearing it. Me too. I'm not going
until you all have jobs. And he did it. He worked
the phones. He used his connections. He called
in favors. He placed them at farm credit, at
co -ops, wherever he could. He ensured their
livelihoods were secure before he even thought
about his own next step. That is the definition
of leadership. It's stewardship. He treated his
employees like his herd. You don't leave until
everyone is taken care of. That's a great connection.
And that moment, to me, defines Peter's legacy
more than any cow he ever bred or bought. It
shows that he learned from his own dispersal.
He knew what it felt like to have the rug pulled
out from under you, and he refused to let that
happen to his people. And we see a similar kind
of resilience of turning grief into action with
Bill Hansel. Another incredible pivot. In 1997,
Bill's wife passed away from ovarian cancer.
He was late in his career. He could have retired.
He could have just, you know, sat on the porch
and grieved. He'd earned it. Most people would
have. But instead, he went back to the lab. He
went back to the lab. He looked at his lifetime
of knowledge about reproductive hormones, knowledge
he built for the dairy industry. And he said,
how can I apply this to fighting cancer? He repurposed
his entire life's work. Exactly. He started working
on something called wheelitic peptides. People
told him it wouldn't work. They said, you're
a cow guy. What do you know about cancer? He
must have faced so much skepticism. So much.
But he persisted. The article quotes him saying,
everybody said it wouldn't work. We persisted.
And it did work. He turned his deepest personal
loss into a potential cure for others. That is
the highest form of keeping the barn lights on.
He tried to keep the lights on for everyone.
It really is. It's about taking your pain and
using it to fuel something good, something bigger
than yourself. So we've talked about these big,
dramatic crises, the droughts, the lightning,
the deaths. But the source material also highlights
the small habits, the ripple effects of tiny,
consistent gestures. And this might be the most
applicable part for all of us. I think so, too.
I love the story of Bud Schultz's Christmas cards.
50 cards. 50 cards every December. For 40 years.
40 years. Think about that consistency. He sent
them to his former grad students. This wasn't
networking. This wasn't a LinkedIn update. This
was checking in. And in today's world where we
are so digitally connected, yet so many people
feel so isolated, that hits home. It really does.
We don't send cards much anymore, but we have
texts. We have DMs. And the lesson from Bud is
the power of the UOK. Text. Yeah. You know, it's
Sunday night. You know, your neighbor has been
struggling with a frozen water line or a sick
herd or just the milk price. Sending that text
just, how's it going? It combats the isolation
of the barn. It tells them they aren't invisible.
That someone is thinking of them. Right. Bud
knew that his students, scattered all over the
country, maybe feeling loft in a new job or a
new city, they needed to know their old mentor
still cared. It was an anchor for them. And then
there's Peter Vail again, paying it forward with
cattle. This story is just pure generosity. It's
fantastic. He's recovering from heart surgery,
of all things, lying in bed, and he buys a top
-tier Jersey cow over the phone. Laughing? I
mean, buying cattle while you're on post -surgery
medication is a dangerous game. Laughs it is.
A very dangerous game. But his instinct wasn't
to keep her. It wasn't to add another banner
to his wall. No. His first thought was someone
else. His first thought was a young couple, Budgen
Farms, who were just getting started. He knew
they had the talent, but they didn't have the
capital to buy a cow like this. Right. They were
long on skill, but short on cash, like so many
young farmers. So what does he do? He sends the
cow to them, just gives them a leg up. And that
cow, she became a foundation for their success.
It teaches us that true success isn't hoarding
the best stock for yourself. It's realizing that
you have enough and using your resources to help
the next generation get a start. It's planting
a tree you might never sit under. That's beautifully
put. It's about building the community, not just
your own herd. So we've heard these incredible
stories. We've unpacked the history, the highs,
the lows. But let's bring it down to the ground
level. Let's make it real. For the guy in the
tractor right now listening to this while he's
chopping corn or scraping the barn, what does
he do with this? How does he apply this idea
of steady hands to his life tomorrow? Okay, I
think it comes down to four practical habits
we can pull straight from these pioneers. Yeah,
let's hear them. First, make introductions. Be
like Max Dowdy. It's that simple. If you see
a young kid at a co -op meeting who looks a little
lost or intimidated, walk over. Introduce them
to the veteran, the board member. Bridge that
gap. You have no idea what that handshake might
start. And it costs you nothing. It costs you
nothing but 10 seconds of courage. But we all
huddle with the people we know. We have to break
that habit. I love that. It's so simple, but
we often forget to do it. Okay, what's number
two? Exactly. Second is the check -in routine.
Be like Bud Schultz. Pick one person a week.
Just one. It doesn't have to be 50. Text them.
Call them. How's the corn looking? Saw you were
combining late. How are the calves? It breaks
the silence. It pierces that bubble of isolation.
It does. If we all did that, if every person
listening picked one person a week, the rural
mental health crisis would look a lot different.
That's so actionable. One person a week. I can
do that. Anyone can. Third, share what you spare.
Be like Peter Vail. You might not have a grand
champion jersey to give away. Perhaps. Probably
not. Probably not. But maybe you have an empty
seat in the truck going to the fair. Maybe you
have a spare hour to help a neighbor fix a fence
or pull a calf. Generosity isn't always money.
Sometimes it's capacity. It's realizing when
your hands are steady enough to help someone
whose hands are shaking. Share what you spare.
I like that. And the fourth one. The fourth one
is maybe the hardest for a lot of farmers. Succession
is trust. There was a tiny moment in the Don
Siebe story where the AI tech comes to the farm
and Don is leaving for the day. He says to the
son, you're one short today. Meaning you're missing
a worker. Right. And the son says, no, when dad's
here, we have one extra. Wow. That is the goal.
recognizing when it's time to shift from being
the boss to being extra hands, trusting the next
generation to hold the reins while you support
them rather than micromanaging them from the
side. That is how a farm survives to the next
generation. When dad's here, we have one extra.
That is such a profound shift in mindset. It's
not about losing control. Not at all. It changes
succession from a battle for control to a partnership,
to a support system. It really does. It allows
the older generation to be the steady hands without
having to be the steering hands. It's a gift,
really. A gift of trust. As we wrap up this deep
dive, these stories, I mean, they are heavy,
but they are incredibly hopeful. They are. Look,
we can't fix the weather. We saw that with Peter's
drought. We can't fix the markets. We live with
that every day. We can't. But we can be the reason
a neighbor keeps going. Luck brings the drought.
People keep the lights on. That is the fundamental
truth of this industry. And I want to remind
everyone that these stories came from the National
Dairy Shrine Pioneers. It's so important to honor
that history and the people who collect it. Absolutely.
If these stories touched you, go to www .thebullvine
.com. Read more of them. We've got more content
there. And more importantly, ask yourself, who
is the person who kept your lights on? That's
a great question to end on. Who showed up for
you with a casserole or a heifer or just a quiet
word when you needed it? Send us that story.
We want to hear it. Thank you for listening to
the Bullvine Podcast. See you next time.