By Carol Ann Sayle
Photography by Jenna Noel
When my husband, Larry Butler, is asked for advice on starting a farm, most folks—ignited with a spring-like fantasy of farming—want to know where the good land is and what kind of tractor they should get. Larry certainly has those answers (find water first; rent a tractor first), but he quickly gets them on the right track with the most important consideration: “What does your significant other think about your plans to farm?”
Usually the prospective farmer will answer cheerily, “Oh, she is very supportive; she’ll keep her job, and I’ll farm.”
Cue the snickering. There’s just no way to prepare someone for the grueling toll a vocation like farming can take—on the body, on the wallet or on a relationship.
Larry and I bloomed with excitement in 1982 at our farm in Gause, in Milam County. We were walking in the woods, swimming in the stock tank and growing and eating great food for the first time in years. But we had other pressing work and kids back in Austin. In 1991, when we decided to farm in a commercial manner (aka, selling to customers) no one counseled us on how or if our relationship would hold up as we farmed. Maybe the secret to our still loving each other is that we do have two farms—what I imagine might be the equivalent of his-and-her bathrooms or separate closets.
Frankly, if we are working together on one farm, it’s better if we are actually on opposite sides of the field. In the first years, we co-farmed—first the Gause farm and then the Austin farm. We survived those experiences—disagreeing on plant spacing, second-guessing a completed task, et cetera—but we also experienced together the joy and excitement of growing food for our community.
Over the years, we have accepted each other, “warts and all,” and to this date, we have confidence in our relationship and abilities, and we’re at ease even with each of us running a different farm 80 miles apart. We consult over situations on either farm, as our missions are combined, but in the end, many of the decisions will be made alone on two farms that are one. All of the produce Larry and his helpers grow at the Gause farm comes here to the Austin farm stand to join the produce that my team and I have harvested. The two farms—distinct reflections of each of us—are also mates.
I guess it also helps that we’ve been married for over 35 years, and since both of us have always been self-employed, we’ve been supportive of each other’s businesses—with some overlapping on my part, as Larry is a man who needs a secretary or two. So, in addition to farming, I do the taxes, payroll and marketing in the Austin office. At the other farm, Pamela, our greenhouse specialist—and farm manager in Larry’s absence—assists in the field, emails him reminders and keeps that farm’s crop records. Larry is just as busy—in addition to farming, he cooks in our commercial kitchen, runs the sawmill and makes many of our tractor implements. We’re all stretched out, but it works.
Some young farmers were recently discussing this relationship idea over a few beers one night. They were trying to figure out how partners—up against weather, pestilence and markets—escape wearing out, arguing and then splitting up; the husband beaten down, the wife resentful.
One of them mentioned us. “Larry’s not beaten down,” he said.
“Yes,” replied another, “but they have two farms!”
Again, the beneficial rule of twos.
When I mentioned to Larry that I was going to write about our success at maintaining devotion to each other while farming over the years, his reply was, “We’ll probably get divorced now.” That happens sometimes, in farming or relationships, but I think we’ve found a system that works for us.
