Makes you wonder

[malleefarmer]

If canada and australia had a "average" harvest on top of other countries current production and production estimates, holy moley were would we be $3.50 per bushel cbot??

Canola likewise and pulses would be swirling in toilet as well.

A pleasant 42c forecast today harvesting will cease shorty 9.30 am at moment

[seldomseen]

We already have 1980 prices except for canola so if the world grows another big one I think your right Holy Moley for sure.
I am not sure how many times I have heard when prices get to a decent level that " Its a new game now then low prices are a thing of the past" Just to many people in the world now prices can't go down. You no sooner here that and prices head back down.

Shutting down combing because of heat is something I would have never considered but 42 that's another Holy Moely.

[burnt]

Bought my first piece of dirt in 1981 and corn had climbed to 4 bucks the year before. Didn't stay there very long. But here's a piece I wrote about 20 years ago about how it all shook out:

Small Change

The stranger surveyed the empty seats as he walked into the local coffee shop. Since it was obvious that none of them suited him, I motioned for him to sit at my table. Nodding his thanks, he pulled up his chair. It was then that I noticed his bunched-up hand come out of his pocket holding a sizable collection of coins - pennies, nickels dimes, quarters and loonies.

“Gooday”, he said with a Francophone accent while sorting through the change in his hand. “How much is a coffee?” he asked as the waitress headed our way with a mug and coffee pot in hand.

“Dollar”, was the reply as the brew was served. He seemed to be preoccupied with sorting the smallest pieces of change into neat piles on the table. Five pennies per stack… let’s see, coupla’ nickels, some dimes and a quarter to make one dollar. “I like to use up my change before I get home” was his explanation.

He was a truck driver who worked for a farmer in Eastern Ontario and having picked up his return load, stopped for a bit of caffeine to help keep him sharp for the seven or eight hour trip back home. And as happens so easily over a good cup of coffee in farm country on a rainy day, we were soon deep in conversation which dealt with the dreadfully serious issues of the day.

We came up with some stunningly simple solutions for many of them. Had his trailer been empty, it would not likely have held the cargo of candid suggestions for the folks who run our fair land from out his way.

We shook our heads in deep dismay at the mention of horrendously high prices farmers were being forced to pay if they wanted to rent or buy land nowadays; why, corn was four dollars a bushel in the 70’s when a fella could rent land for sixty five dollars an acre! How’s it supposed to work a one-sixty-five or two hundred? Or five or six thousand an acre to buy it?

Feeling the pain of those attempting to do so compelled me to share my own painful start-up experience in farming. “It was 1981 when I bought my first farm, 50 acres at twelve hundred an acre and interest at 16% from Farm Credit. As Jim signed over the deed for the land he had just sold me he said ‘Johnnie, this year corn is four dollars a bushel and next year it will be five’,” I recounted to the stranger as I quietly relived that distant moment.

“And was it?” the stranger whispered hoarsely over the sound of the pouring rain.

“Nope”, I replied in a low voice, “corn dropped to two-fifty and my operating loan jumped to twenty-two percent. You see, Jim was a Liberal.”

Shocked almost to the point of disbelief, he asked me, “How did you ever survive?”
“Same way as everyone else did in the achin’ eighties - the government kept sending out little trickles of money to keep the farmers going. Lots of us think they knew just how much it would take to keep the banks from losing too much money on bad loans. Those bankers got friends in high places, you know.”

The stranger drained his cup and shook his head in amazement at his new-found understanding as he pushed back his chair. “Gotta go home” he said.

“By the way, where’s home?” I asked as he rose to leave. He swept the pile of small change into his hand and let it trickle onto the counter to pay the bill.

“Ottawa,” he replied.

The rain stopped, the sun burst out and suddenly it all made sense. I guess that’s just the way they do it out there.