A reporter friend of mine once asked me why, with everything I could possibly cover in the news world, I chose to write about agriculture.

The answer came simply enough: I like being outside and lack the attention span to keep up with sports statistics.

It got him to go on to the next subject, but somehow it seemed a feeble excuse for what eventually became a career.

Truth be told, Grandpa’s probably to blame.

With quick wit and comfortable cadence, he would tell tales tall and small, teaching me early on to love a good story. I later learned I even had a knack for jotting a few down.

But long before I ever put pen to paper, there was something else he passed along without my even knowing about it.

The son of a grocery-store father and math-teacher mother, I lived in a number of small Texas towns growing up, none ever far from that little, nondescript place we all called the farm. I grew to love the place. I still do.

So it came as little shock, I suppose, that every weekend, holiday and summer break would find me on the old man’s heels, a towheaded little boy, fully taken with his tractors and trucks.

I won’t lie to you. We worked hard. There were pens to clean, pastures to clear, pears and pecans to pick.

Calves needed doctoring, hay needed baling and almost always, something needed fixing or feeding.

But I enjoyed it. It’s a mighty good life, right down to the grime under your nails. Of course, our place had long ago quit supporting anybody all on its own.

As with countless others all around us, a job in town was a must if you hoped to pay the bills.

So I headed off to college, back when Southwest Texas State University was alive and well on the headwaters of the San Marcos. I thought I might follow mom into the classroom, but that love of stories ultimately won out.

It was a slow start at first. I spent months pecking away in dank cubbyholes on random research projects for professors before my words ever found a newsroom.

And I can’t count the number of subjects I’ve covered since. I even shelled out sports stats a few more times than I care to recall.

Grandpa left us in the summer of 2001, laid to rest not far from the same farm he worked every day of his life.

Somehow, though, the old man blazed a path that led back to those same turn rows and cattle trails for me.

I found the stories I liked best came from those same fields I thought I had years ago left behind.

There also came purpose, a point driven home to me recently by local county agent Shane McLellan. As with most in his line of work, farms and farmers fill his days, and he’s hardly bashful when it comes to talking about either.

His lone lament is one I’ve heard repeated time and again all across this state. Despite whatever worth they may add to our communities and lives, farms seem all but forgotten too often today.

Well, I tend to agree with you, Shane.

So it is in earnest we launch this Farm & Ranch column, and I look forward to doing my part in sharing those stories that might otherwise be left untold.

After all, Grandpa wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bobby Horecka lives in China Spring with his wife and three children. He writes for the Texas Farm Bureau’s print publications, online news service and video projects.