I am a child of Reagan and Bush I.
My first course in economics was walking the cow pasture and cornfields alongside my grandfather on his farm in Darke County, Ohio. My grandfather was a child of Wilson and Harding who plowed the fields with his bare hands during a Depression and lost a brother in the Pacific. He was stoic with large leather beaten hands and his voice carried the gift of gab. The economic lesson was short, to the point, followed by a silent stare of befuddlement. My grandfather pointed to a large patch of land that was a thicket of weeds and shrubs, a remanent of tilled soil years before, that had been left to the elements and nature for it to take over. It was nestled between the cow pasture and the cornfield with geometrically perfect lines of planted seeds. “See that land over there that is just gone to waste, all over grown with weeds?” I nodded. “That’s the land I make the most money off of. The government pays me not to plant there.” I was confused when he began to tell me about how it drives up the prices for American farmers on the International market. It was over my 8 year old head. All I could understand was his befuddlement and frustration. It was in his hands to plant things, to fix things, to contribute.