Clinging to the Land

By Ed Magnuson

American farmers have been crying wolf for so long that their city cousins have mostly stopped listening. But along rural back roads last week, the expressions of anguish seemed genuine. Farmers sometimes differed about the causes of their distress, but they shared a frustration, almost a sense of shame, about their plight.

"You really feel like a failure," says Charles Boehmke, 44, who is clinging to his Minnesota farm after losing his animals and machinery because he could not repay a $136,000 loan. One of his neighbors, David Honsey, 40, filed for bankruptcy and said it made him feel like going into the barn and "doing something you shouldn't do there." He has since rejected thoughts of suicide, deciding "there is a higher power than the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. But I think they'll find a few farmers in the barn rafters before this is over." (Actually, there are signs that suicides among farmers are rising. There were 47 in Missouri in 1982, for example, and 59 in 1983.)

Country people are often reluctant to confide in strangers, but their alarm is such that Willard Treu, a wheat, milo and corn grower, rushed up to TIME Correspondent Barbara Dolan when he heard her asking about farm problems at the John Deere store in Quinter, Kans. "I'm scared," he said. "I'm 61 years old and 41 years a farmer, and this is the worst time I've been through."

Many farmers admit that they plunged too heavily into debt in the heyday of the 1970s, planting their fields from fence post to fence post. But they argue that that was precisely what federal bureaucrats and local bankers urged them to do. They reject the argument of Budget Director David Stockman that they are to blame for their troubles. "I'd like to get about 15 minutes behind the barn with that dude," says Tom Kersey, 45, a Georgia farmer who helped lead "tractorcade" protests to Washington, D.C., in 1978 and 1979.

Although there have been scattered threats of violence among farmers who feel manipulated and want to strike out at someone or something, most of their protest has been a stolid, dignified resistance to farm foreclosures or forced auctions. Some 40 supporters of Ray Parks, 42, gathered in front of the Worth County courthouse in Sylvester, Ga., last week and joined loudly in song to prevent an auctioneer from hearing any bids on the 595-acre spread. To the tune of Home on the Range, they sang, "Oh, give me my farm, and a price that is fair, and a chance to pay all of my debts." The auction was postponed. In Minnesota, Jim Langman's farm won a similar reprieve when 1,000 farmers protested its forced sale. His hopes now rest with the state legislature, which is considering a moratorium on foreclosures.

The heavily subsidized farmers of the Midwest, where prices on such crops as wheat, corn and soybeans have been particularly depressed, seem to be suffering the most. The rural South has also been hard hit. California, with its wide diversity of crops (more than 200 in all) and clement weather, is faring better, but even there growers are worried. Because the large Eastern markets are close, mid-Atlantic farmers have avoided the export crunch that has badly hurt the heartland.

American farmers are hardy survivors, used to contending with the vagaries of weather and blight. But as TIME correspondents toured agricultural regions last week, they found farmers uncharacteristically frightened by changes in the U.S. economy and impending shifts in Government policy. A sampling of their moods and situations follows:

In Georgia: Sliding into Debt

"I just like to watch things grow," is the way J.O. Cross Jr., 58, explains his decision to follow his father's vocation. He bought his own 360-acre spread in central Georgia's Dooly County in 1953 and planted a variety of crops (soybeans, cotton, peanuts, wheat) to hedge against low prices in any one. Profits were never large, but with his wife Ruth teaching at a high school, they were able to send three children through college. "We were enjoying making a living," the balding, bespectacled Cross recalls. "We used to ride out Sunday evenings and just look at my crops."

The profits were steady enough so that by 1977 Ruth decided to stop teaching. That same year a drought hit much of the South. "We didn't make anything that year," says Cross. "We decided that the only way to hold on was to go into debt for an irrigation system." Cross had no difficulty in getting a $100,000 loan from the local production credit association; his land was valued at up to $1,200 an acre, providing ample collateral. Ruth, a slim, handsome woman, went back to teaching.

The loan Cross had acquired carried an adjustable interest rate, fluctuating from 12% to 13%. He also got another loan, this time from the Small Business Administration. Yearly crop planning loans added to his indebtedness. Much of his small profit went to meeting his interest obligations. "When you have to pay tens of thousands of dollars a year in interest, you can't pay the principal."

By 1982 the production credit association advised Cross to get longer-term financing so that his yearly payments would be lower. He got a loan from the Federal Land Bank. "We had to borrow from here," says Cross, pointing to one of his fingers, "to pay here." He touches another finger. "Then we borrowed from here to pay here." At the same time, the value of his land was dropping to $600 an acre. His two tractors, bought in 1968 and 1973, were wearing out. But he had paid $13,800 for the last one, and it would cost him $39,000 to replace it.

Cross is still committed to the land, but admits some of the joy has gone out of his work. "We don't ride out on Sundays anymore. It isn't here," he says, pointing to his heart, "like it was."

In Texas: A Double Whammy

Most of the fringe rice farmers have stopped trying to scratch a living out of the hardpan topsoil in the Texas Gulf Coast area. Now even Jay Anderson, 57, whose grandfather came to Texas from Illinois 87 years ago to build a highly successful farm operation, has lost money for two years in a row. "I've never seen so much gloom and doom in the rice belt," he says. "There's no light in the tunnel."

The oldest of six brothers and one sister, Anderson grows rice on 1,800 acres in Wharton and Colorado counties. That makes him a big operator, but he has had to retrench. He dropped the lease on 2,200 acres he was renting because "I was losing money on it." Anderson has let some of his field hands go, but wants to keep on a nucleus in case things get better.

Anderson, an avuncular man who is active in Texas Republican politics, is worried because he has been hit by what he calls "two whammies." A few years ago, his land was worth $1,400 an acre. Now he figures it runs at best $1,000 an acre. Where he once could get 14 cents for a pound of rice, he now can expect only 8 cents. Each acre, in short, brought $700 when he harvested 5,000 lbs. of rice on it in the mid-'70s; now it brings him just $400.

When Anderson looks about for someone to blame for his troubles, he finds Government farm policies only partly at fault. They force farmers to "do unnatural things that are not efficient farming," he complains. But the chief villain, he says, is competition from abroad, where costs are lower and exports are subsidized.

Anderson is trying to sell some of his older equipment, including seven tractors, three combines, several planters and cultivators. The equipment, which is parked outside the office of the Prairie Rice Co. in Chesterville, cost $1.4 million. "If we got one-fourth of that," Anderson says, "we'd be happy." His brother Arthur, 53, who farms 1,000 acres near by, is bitter about those who buy at forced sales. "At auctions, farmers pounce on a used tractor like vultures," he complains. "They're just feeding on someone else's misfortune."

In Minnesota: Angry at Uncle Sam

% Delbert Kahoun, 57, and his cheery wife Christine, 60, like to tell how their 600-acre dairy farm near the southeastern Minnesota town of Rushford (pop. 1,500) has survived through six generations, beginning in 1864. "All the timber on this farm, every acre here, was cleared by my great-grandfather and my grandfather," says Kahoun. "My grandmother had tree cutters to feed all winter." Now the white two-story farmhouse, where the Kahouns had lived for 37 years, is occupied by their son Philip, 26, his wife Debbie and their three children. The elder Kahouns have moved into a new trailer home on the property to make room for their son's growing family.

Delbert considered selling the farm twelve years ago, when a buyer from Iowa offered a good price. But he asked his son, "Do you want this farm? If you say yes, I'll tell these men to go." Philip did not want his father to sell, and five years ago the value of the farm reached nearly $900,000. But then came bad times. Father and son ran up a combined debt of about $250,000. The value of the farm dropped to roughly $400,000. Now the Kahouns are struggling just to hold on to the place.

To do so, Philip has taken a job driving a milk truck from Minnesota to Illinois; he travels twelve days out of every 14. Debbie works as a licensed practical nurse. The two jobs contribute about $1,000 a month to keep the dairy operation and a smattering of beef cattle going. The farm's electric bill alone often runs to $600 a month.

The Kahouns feel helpless at what has happened to turn their world upside down. One of the elder Kahoun's daughters, Elizabeth, 38, a nursing-home aide, became so angry that she placed telephone calls to both President Reagan and Agriculture Secretary John Block. She never got past secretaries. One in Block's office told her, "Honey, there's not enough money in the U.S. Treasury to bail out all the country's farmers." Predicts Elizabeth: "If and when the farm goes for sale--and I think it's when--Dad will probably die and Mom will go bonkers, and I am suing the U.S. Government for bringing this evil on this family."

Less bitterly, her father muses about lost opportunities. Says he: "Five years ago, if we had sold out and paid the taxes, we'd have a half a million in the bank. Now we're considering food stamps."

In Iowa: Waiting for the Sheriff

A neighbor emerged from Elmer Steffes' white farmhouse amid the gentle bluffs of southwest Iowa. "You might as well go home--and take your dog with . you," said Steffes' 23-year-old daughter Kay, in a bitter undertone that the neighbor did not hear. Inside the house, Elmer, 47, a sturdy, barrel-chested man, explained he is losing his 460-acre farm and suspected that the neighbor might have been snooping around for the bank that will seize his property. "You can't be too sure of anybody these days," Steffes said.

There is an air of mourning around the Steffes farm. Friendlier neighbors drop by, bringing covered dishes of food. The quiet talk centers on the misfortune of Steffes, his wife Pat, 45, and their two surviving children, Kay and Bruce, 19. Without saying so, each visitor is aware that his or her farm could go next. Third- generation farmers, the Steffes had acquired 280 acres by 1966, raising livestock and planting a variety of crops. In the booming 1970s they added another 180 acres and rented 530 more. Farming began to sour for them in 1979, just as tragedy struck. They lost two sons, 16 and 20, to cancer. Their sons' medical costs came on top of farming setbacks. Still, creditors were patient as the family fell $100,000 in debt. Recalls Steffes: "The people in town really trusted me. The feed dealer carried us along. So did the gas dealer. Everybody helped us out."

The recession of 1981-82 put the Steffes further into debt. When they could not get a new $100,000 loan to tide them over, they filed for bankruptcy, reporting liabilities totaling $800,000. While the proceeding was pending, they kept farming, grossing at least $200,000 each year, but losing money nevertheless. Last week more than 100 of Steffes' friends lent moral support at a court hearing over $168,000 owed to the local bank. The bank won the right to temporarily seize the collateral Steffes had pledged on the loans.

After waiting all week for Sheriff Bill Shaw to carry out the seizure orders, Steffes was surprised when 13 lawmen from several counties arrived at the farm before 8 a.m. on Friday. Pat and Elmer were still in bed. The officers blocked off the access roads to the farm. Pat called some of her neighbors to let them know what was happening, but only a few hiked the half- mile from the nearest intersection in the cold weather. The Steffes did not resist, but cooperated only minimally with the sheriff. Workers hired by the bank loaded many of their pigs, sheep and cows into a cattle trailer. They also hauled away much of Steffes' machinery.

The Steffes do not intend to be on hand when the house is taken later. They do not want to be escorted off their land. Neither is outwardly angry, although Pat wonders why "farmers with debt out of proportion to their assets are told to get out of business, but the Government keeps right on going that way." Her husband has been despondent, but he has come to view his situation philosophically. "I'm still a rich man," he said. "I've got my wife, my kids, my health and some good friends."

In California: A Glimmer of Hope

At mid-morning in Modesto, Calif. (pop. 127,700), a group of farmers, some of whom had been in their nearby fields since 5 a.m., gathered around the tables at the Salida Kitchen coffee shop. Farmers with varied interests, from fruits and vegetables to dairy cattle and almonds, depend less on federal subsidies than elsewhere. But they, too, are worried.

Few in the group look to Government to save them. "I kinda got to go along with David Stockman," said Mark Boege, 52, who grows walnuts and almonds. "I don't know why the Government has to bail us out. Besides, it seems like every time Government comes in, it makes things worse." Jim Vella, 51, an almond raiser whose wife, Clarice, 41, had to take a supermarket check-out job to help out, agreed. "Look at what Government did to those guys in the Midwest. They've been getting subsidies for years and they're in terrible shape." But what should be done? "What we need to do is have all of the country's farmers stop shipping their produce for two weeks," suggested Vella. "That would show people how important we really are."

As things change, the uncertainty of their futures concerns many California farmers. "This is the worst it's ever been," complained Irwin Effird, 64, who raises mostly grapes on his 2,000-acre spread near Clovis. "I came through the '30s and can remember the problems. But back then the whole country was in the same position, not just farmers." Now there is a glut of domestic raisins and Effird's farm is worth half what it was just three years ago. Pat Ricchioti, 65, a grape and fruit farmer with 3,000 acres near Madera, was also gloomy. "I never thought things would drop this far," he said. "I put away a dollar for a rainy day--and that rainy day is here." "We're pretty close to the bottom," conceded Jan Ennenga, 25, program director for the Modesto Farm Bureau. Reflecting the area's optimism, however, Ennenga predicted, "Things should begin to get better soon."

In Kansas: Losing Heirlooms

; When the auction began last Friday, some 150 farmers crowded around the steps of the courthouse in Gove, Kans. (pop. 140). Sheriff Dean Baum began reading off the legal orders under which the personal property of C. David Jensen and his wife Virginia, both 54, would be sold to satisfy an unpaid debt of $180,000 to the Citizens State Bank of nearby Grainfield. Someone threw snowballs at one of the sheriff's deputies, and someone else shouted at the assembled officials: "Why don't you go out and steal them?" That was a reference to the two cars, three trucks, two tractors, a combine and other Jensen possessions.

As their more personal items were read off, Virginia Jensen wept. There was a loveseat, a silver oil lamp, brass candlesticks, a woman's rocker. When Baum cited "an oak bedroom set," she lost control. "These are family heirlooms," she shouted. "They've been in our family for 150 years. They're not for sale." But they were. Under the rules of the auction, the articles could not be split up; all of them would go to the highest single bidder. A lawyer for the Citizens State Bank bid $89,000 for everything, the only bid offered. (The rule was designed to stymie a common practice at other forced sales in which local farmers would bid only token sums for many items and then hand them back to their former owners.) Said the sheriff: "Going once, going twice. Sold."

"It's devastating," Virginia Jensen said. "David has farmed all his life. He started milking cows when he was five years old. It's a family-type thing, a way of life. Every time David goes out to drive the tractor now, he leaves a piece of his heart out there." The Jensens owe another $400,000 in mortgages on their land. Their 1,120 acres, on which they have raised mostly wheat for the past 27 years, will be sold at a similar involuntary auction this week.

With reporting by Joseph N. Boyce/Unadilla, David S. Jackson/ Chesterville and Don Winbush/Audubon, with other bureaus