The Rain That Followed the Form
The day I mailed my drought paperwork it rained for nine hours straight, and now the whole county asks me to stop filing forms.
The summer I am talking about was dry, even by Weld County standards. The creek was a line of cracked mud, the stock tank had dropped to a puddle, and the grass looked like it had been left too long in a toaster. I had read enough to know that a producer in my position might qualify for some kind of drought assistance, and I had learned enough in my banking years to know that nothing happens without a form. So I sat down one Sunday night and filled out every page.
I completed the form with care. I measured my pasture, listed the head count, and attached a photograph of the cracked creek bed, which I thought was my best exhibit. Monday morning, I drove into town and handed it across the counter to the clerk at the county office, who stamped it and said it would take a few weeks. I walked out into the sun and drove home, and as I turned onto my lane, the first fat drop hit the windshield.
It rained for nine hours. It came down soft and steady and then heavy, and the creek filled, and the tank overflowed, and every cow on the place stood out in the field with her face tilted up like a person at a revival. I called the county office to say I might need to withdraw. The clerk said she was looking out her own window, and she thought that might be wise. I withdrew, and she gave me a new form for that, which was shorter and, to my surprise, more cheerful.
The next summer, it went dry again, and I filed the form again, and again the rain came. By the third year, the neighbors began driving by my mailbox at the first sign of dry weather to ask, quietly, whether I had filed yet. I told them it was not a rain dance, merely a paperwork routine. The drought.gov pages have a good deal of real information that I have learned to read, and I would recommend them over my method. But if you are ever in need of weather, I am happy to mail a form on your behalf, free of charge. The folks over at farm.FM call me the Paperwork Prophet, which I have decided to accept.
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