Where Corona is still just a Beer.

Today I went to a farm auction. A client asked me to place a bid on their behalf on a bucolic piece of real estate. Just over an hour from Columbus near the small town of Utica, a retiring farmer in a plaid shirt stood with his wife and watched their home, barns, and land disappear, measured in $5000 increments.



I don’t know the back story, but it didn’t seem to be a forced sale. This family wasn’t “losing” the farm, just walking away. The winner was a young farmer. His wife cheered when the bidding stopped in their favor. The new owner, dressed in Wranglers and mud boots, held off his celebration. His first action was to walk over to his predecessor, shake the old man’s hand and say “I promise you, I’ll take care of your farm.”


Bear with me for a moment. Allow me to be naive, or blind, or a romantic. Utica is a pastoral drive down SR 62, just over 50 miles from broken glass and tear gas; graffiti and fear. But here respect isn’t mandated, it’s taught; Corona is a beer, and the future is as sure and steady as the knee high corn over the shoulder.



My clients didn’t win today. But I did. If just for an hour.

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