Columnist Charles Summers with his eldest son Hiram, who took to farming like fish to water.

Managing the young man

Tempering youthful energy takes patience, but when focussed, it can be one of the most powerful forces on the farm

As someone who did not grow up on a farm, let alone in a rural community, there are many customs in the world of agriculture I discover along the way which leave me scratching my head. That is, until I journey farther along and discover exactly the why and wherefore of these conventions.

My oldest son Hiram seems to have farming in his blood, and despite his parents’ short-lived partnership, he has watched his father painfully and pitifully learn the business and trade of raising plants and animals to make a dollar. When we bought our land in Lyndhurst seven years ago, I was shocked when the 13-year-old wanted to move from his mother’s in Ottawa to live on the farm with my wife Morgan and his much younger half brothers and sisters. This was something I would never have dared imagine or hope for.

So, we added a pudgy city-kid to the mix. He took to farm life like a fish to water. Santa sent a little chainsaw for his first Christmas with us, and before long was cutting all of our firewood. He quietly replaced his father operating the sawmill, and as the primary tractor operator. Spurred on by a good shop teacher, he also became chief mechanic (my weakest suit), and once he got his G2, became our deliveryman. He can do everything on the maple end of the business from tapping to boiling to bottling, he knows how to tell when a watermelon is ripe, and I myself have not baled a single roll of hay in the past three seasons. The same way a 4-year-old can pick up a new language without thinking, it appears teenaged boys are the same with practical skills.

Which is why I was always perplexed by the explicit or implicit rule on almost every farm that “Junior must spend X numbers of years away before they can be a part of the farm.” I always thought, “Wow, why on earth would you want to part with a young worker like that?” Now that I no longer have a pudgy city kid on my hands, but rather a rail thin farmer I crane my neck to look up to, I understand EXACTLY why you want to see your child somewhere else at that age.

Think back to yourself at 20… oh yeah. Makes a lot of sense when you think of it that way. Young men at this age can be so difficult, it becomes clear why society traditionally sent them off to war. And after all, what is more dangerous than a man in his early twenties? Strong, aggressive, tireless, with an unbruised ego, absolutely no ability to gauge risk nor possessing any inkling of their own mortality. Flushed with hormones, they’re the perfect candidate for cannon fodder: they exhibit both great bravery and foolishness and think they are the coolest thing ever while they do it.

A lot about military life makes sense when you consider it’s meant to use and break 20-year-old men. The screaming, denigrating drill sergeant is who he is because that is the only way you can penetrate the mind of such a creature. Polite instructions, delivered respectfully with an indoor voice are seen as quaint suggestions, quickly forgotten and ignored. The protocol of the cadet’s response of “SIR YES SIR” makes a lot sense after you’ve gotten enough surly, groaning “I guess”-es to perfectly reasonable requests. Would it be that difficult to conceal your disdain?

There’s a great quote from Mark Twain that illustrates the young man’s cognition (keeping in mind how much faster people grew up 150 years ago): “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

As we age, tempered by experience, we tend to explore our options rather than rush into things. In wisdom, we might even second guess ourselves. Well, you should have a young man around to consult, because they know EVERYTHING.

You don’t even have to complete your sentences or explain your instructions to them, because they will tell you “I KNOW” and be walking away before you’ve even finished your thought.

You might think it a bit bold of me to be speaking about such private matters in the newspaper, but trust me, Hiram will never read any of this. Although I have a widely circulated weekly blog, and fit at least an article or two into every issue of the Farmers Forum, there is no amount of coercion you could apply to get my son to read a word of my writing. As he explains: “I already know what you think.” Yes, in your early twenties you are basically Kreskin!

Now, it may be better for my peace of mind to not butt heads. It might be better for my son’s maturity to throw him to the wolves. But it would be very bad for our farm. I understand now, why more established operations send their youngins off to let the world straighten them out. But Salt of the Earth is a baby little farm, and the fact of the matter is that Hiram’s efforts have been essential in its formation and ongoing operation.

This is one of the things that makes farming the best life. The sacrifices it demands of us: the mortification of our ease and comfort for a greater good. Yes, I would prefer someone else to be the drill sergeant in his life right now. He’d rather not be critiqued by the ignorant old man whose every weakness he knows very well. But these emotional tolls are prices to be paid for the success of something larger than ourselves: The Farm.

Leaving the farm can get you an education, a spouse and an assortment of skills and experience to bring home. It can also make you appreciate what your parents have helped build, and allows one to make mistakes far from the prying eyes of family. As the ever-increasing age, and ever decreasing number of farmers indicates, however, is that more often than not, when farm kids leave the nest, they don’t come back. (Though they’ll certainly have their hats out when it comes time to sell). Everything in farming is a gamble, and like all risks, can offer great rewards.

Two of the best young farmers I know in our area — whom I’ve written about here already: Ethan Embury and Charlie Cumpson, never strayed very far from the farm. In part because they live and breathe it, but also because they were very much needed. Now, in their thirties, these young men are not only giving their fathers a break in their day to day management and operation, but also are that much further ahead in the game of life, and have a certain focus and toughness you don’t so often find in those who took advantage of the fun and frivolity of finding yourself in their early twenties.

Farm “succession” is perhaps the most poignant and least articulated aspects of farming in 2026, as the older generation grapples with the high stakes of passing very valuable farm operations onto the next crop of farmers. It’s a tricky business, often parasitized by lawyers, accountants and other financial advisors. There is no obvious or easy answer, and let’s face facts: most farmers are what we could call “new money,” and lack the pedigree to elegantly pass on vast amounts of wealth.

Above and beyond the pride and joy I take in watching my lad build skills and character on the farm, and to earn the esteem and respect and of his peers and elders, I’ve found that working with an adult child really puts a focus on my own relationship with Our Father, God in heaven. If I think how frustrated I might get with my own son, I can only imagine how my actions and behaviours leave God feeling. When I ponder how merciful, generous and patient God has been with me — despite everything — I suppose I could offer just a tiny fraction of that to my own flesh and blood.

There are really no greater gifts in life than children and land. And while they may be “ours” for a moment, the children will have to learn to live without us, and the land will need another steward. Sons become fathers and have their own, fathers turn into worm food and the soil remains crying for a caring hand.

Farming is a tough enough business as it is, but parenting is even harder. Whether you send you kids to Guelph, McGill, the oil patch, or keep them hitched to the plough at home, the lesson I learn over and over is that we need thankfulness and God’s grace to navigate these matters more than anything.

Charles Summers owns Salt of the Earth Farm, a direct-to-consumer operation selling vegetables at the roadside, near Lyndhurst, Ontario.