No Political Flags on Guebert Farm
Published: Friday, October 3, 2025
While my father and mother were far from apolitical, neither allowed any political signs or flags in the yard or on any barns on our southern Illinois dairy farm.
The reason, my father once explained, was "The land's for crops, the barns for cows, and politics is for politicians." It wasn't public postering; it was a strong, private belief. I can recall witnessing him practice his politics only three times in my presence.
The first was in the mid-1960s when he "shushed" his noisy children one winter evening to hear a news update on whether that year's just-completed farm bill continued the 1949 law's milk price formula. It had, and he smiled just before disappearing behind his day-old newspaper.
The second time was in January 1969 when he and Mom left the farm early one afternoon to attend the inaugural ball of Illinois' new governor, Republican Richard B. Ogilvie, in Springfield. I suspect they had been offered tickets by Dad's uncle, a local GOP bigwig, and viewed the glitzy ball as a once-in-a-lifetime experience not to be passed by.
It was and they didn't. I can still see my mother waving a cigarette as she left the kitchen for the almost three-hour drive to Springfield, shoulders wrapped in a mink stole borrowed from her mother-in-law and carrying a pair of black patent leather high heels.
The third time was when my father told me—unsolicited—that he had voted for then Illinois Sen. Barack Obama for president. The news surprised me because his politics had leaned rightward after the Watergate affair brought down President Richard Nixon, a man he supported and believed had been "hounded" out of office.
But not voting for John McCain, a plain-talking, bona fide war hero—that was stop-the-presses stuff for him. Why?
"We're both too old to cut the mustard," he said. McCain was 71 when my then 81-year-old father offered that judgment in 2008.
And that's as political as he ever got. He never served as any party's precinct or county chairman, never gave more than $25 to any political campaign, and never asked another person—not even his children—how they voted or who they supported.
My mother was just the opposite, a wear-it-on-your sleeve Republican who served on precinct and county committees, worked as a GOP poll judge for decades (despite the polling site being on foreign soil: in the basement of a rural Catholic church), and often quizzed her children if had they voted for "any Democrats" lately.
Although I'm quite certain my father voted mostly Republican, my mother's overt politics had little sway over his views or votes. If Mom offered political pronouncements at the dinner table like "That Bill Clinton is a crook," Dad often replied, "Pass the gravy, please" or "The clutch might be going out on the 1850."
It wasn't that he hadn't heard; it was more that he had no interest in engaging her because there was "no profit" in most topics political.
But he wasn't clueless. Local candidates often stopped at the farm to seek his support and members of both the county Farm Bureau and Mid-American Dairymen boards sought his counsel on the key issues like federal milk marketing orders or if the cooperative should build its first cheese plant.
The reasons, I believe, were two-fold. First, neighbors and farmer friends knew he followed facts, not politics, in decisionmaking. Second, he was a patient consensus builder; no one was left out of any discussion or left behind on any vote.
And, yes, that was a different time, a time when politicians sought farmers' votes—unlike today when farmers seek politicians' votes.
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