of grain bins and grandmas

My farmer and I are kind of like 80-year-olds at heart. We think concerts are too noisy, kids sass their parents too much and teenagers wear too little clothing. 

We also like to drive around on the weekends, just like grandmas and grandpas do when they take joy rides in the country. {And I mayyyyy just use these as prime opportunities to con some ice cream out of him afterwards.)

Despite what people tell you -- especially when they're driving through Iowa -- the countryside is actually quite beautiful. And if you know what you're looking for, there's a fair amount to see: waterways, wild turkeys, trees, goats. You can see it all if you just have a little bit of curiosity. 

We stopped for a minute on our little excursion for my farmer to switch the fan from one grain bin to another. 

These big mama bins hold shelled corn from last fall's harvest. The fans blow air from outside up through the bin to dry out the corn so that it doesn't spoil and rot and then spontaneously combust and blow up half of Missouri.

{Ok, so maybe that's stretching it a bit.}

So there he was, switching the fan, doing his farmer thing. 

And while he was busy, I turned around to see what else I could spy on our afternoon jaunt and to get a shot of the dairy because it's spring and the day was beautiful and the sun was shining and who wouldn't like to see American agriculture at its finest?

But when I turned back around, he was gone. 

Except for he wasn't. People, HE WAS STANDING ON TOP OF THE GRAIN BIN. 

Now I know farmers do this every day and that I would probably pass out if I knew half of the things he does and that I should probably just go ahead and have a heart attack and get it over with.

But he wasn't hanging on to the edge of the ladder with a death grip like I would have been. He wasn't hanging onto anything at all! 

But even over the sound of the fan, which pretty much ensured he couldn't hear me, I still hollered, "Would you stop doing that?" and stomped my foot like a total toddler.

The good news is: It worked! He trotted on down all safe and sound, just like I asked. 

Ok. So maybe he came down because he was crawling down the ladder anyway. 

And because he wasn't going to sit up there all night or anything.

And because he never heard me panic and freak out in the first place.

And because what goes up must come down.

And maybe he's pretty used to dashing up and down ladders, and it's really just me who likes to think heights = THE END OF THE WORLD. 

Now that I think about it, maybe he's not an 80-year-old at heart after all. Maybe it's just the grandma in me fretting at him to be safe. 

Psssh. 

You know what I say?

KIDS THESE DAYS. 

PS Yep. It's just me. Defffffinitely me.