Wyatt Schwoeppe, 19, ushered a group of breeding heifers from the pasture to the feeding pen near the barn on the morning of June 6 on his family's dairy farm in Huntingburg. The Schwoeppe farm — operated by Wyatt, his parents Darren and Sam, his brother, Ethan, 18, and grandmother, Valeria — is one of seven operating dairy farms in Dubois County. Seven year ago, there were 18 dairy farms in the county. Staff photo by Dave Weatherwax
Wyatt Schwoeppe, 19, ushered a group of breeding heifers from the pasture to the feeding pen near the barn on the morning of June 6 on his family's dairy farm in Huntingburg. The Schwoeppe farm — operated by Wyatt, his parents Darren and Sam, his brother, Ethan, 18, and grandmother, Valeria — is one of seven operating dairy farms in Dubois County. Seven year ago, there were 18 dairy farms in the county. Staff photo by Dave Weatherwax
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He herds a group of dairy cows into the milking parlor, a low-slung building with tin siding.

Cows are everywhere, baking in the late-afternoon heat, waiting to be milked. Fans mounted in the parlor are of little use. It’s summer, and Wyatt Schwoeppe’s shirt is sticking to his back.

One by one, the livestock file in, lining up against a row of stalls. The parlor can hold 10 cows at a time. Wyatt’s parents, Darren and Sam, hook a mechanized milking machine to the animals’ teats. Milk pours into a hose that connects to a stainless steel pipe, which flows to a 2,000-gallon cooling tank near the front of the building.

The milking sessions are done twice a day, first in the predawn hours, starting about 3 a.m. They’re repeated in the late afternoon, after the other chores are finished. It takes up to three hours in the morning — and another three in the afternoon — to shuffle their herd of more than 90 cows through the parlor. Little is said once the milking begins. Everyone has something to do.

Wyatt, a free-spirited 19-year-old with tousled, sun-bleached hair, has a way with animals. They obey his every command. His mother calls him the “cow whisperer.” From a young age, he knew he wanted to be a dairy farmer. Sam has urged him to go to college, but he’d rather tend to livestock and tinker with farm machinery. Someday, he will take over the family farm near Huntingburg.

“You won’t make a whole lot of money,” Wyatt says, “but you get to be around animals all day instead of people. They seem to listen better.”

Ethan, the Schwoeppe’s younger son, is headed to Ivy Tech Community College in Evansville this fall. If all goes as planned, Ethan, 18, will live in the countryside and maybe own a few animals once he’s finished with school. But he doesn’t want to be tied to a farm. He wants to be an electrician. He got a job this summer mowing grass at the Dubois County 4-H Fairgrounds. He still helps around the farm, but his parents and older brother handle most of the work.

Like many rural communities, Dubois County is dealing with concerns that the younger generation is losing touch with the land. Between 2007 and 2012, the number of local dairy farms shrank from 18 to seven. The county lost 667 dairy cows during that time, about a quarter of its inventory, according to a U.S. Department of Agriculture report released in May. Other agricultural ties are disappearing. Next week, 17 young people will show dairy cows at the county fair; a decade ago, there were 28.

“It’s that way everywhere,” says Wyatt, a former 4-H grand champion. “Numbers are down in about every animal project, but dairy’s down especially because of the labor intensity of the work. People are realizing it’s a lot easier to just sell corn instead of trying to raise dairy cows.”    

This is the last year Ethan is eligible to show livestock at the local fair. After the competition, he will be done with 4-H — and perhaps with farming.

She likes to go back in time.

Back to 1960, when she tied the knot with a young dairy farmer named Charlie Schwoeppe. Her mother warned her she wouldn’t like living on a farm, but she proved her wrong. Sure, the work is grueling. Yes, the hours are long. Yet she enjoys the daily farm life. It speaks to her rustic sensibility.   

She grew up in Ferdinand. Her parents named her Valeria, but everyone calls her Bootsie. When she was a baby, her grandfather peered into her crib and said, “Well, look at that little Bootsie.” The name stuck.

“A lot of people don’t even know what my real name is,” she says. “I go to church and the priest even calls me by my nickname.”

She and Charlie had five children: three boys and two girls. All live close by, but only Darren stayed on the farm.

A few years ago, Charlie died suddenly. He was battling a cold and one afternoon, while watching TV, he began talking funny.

“I said, ‘Charlie, what’s wrong?’ He said, ‘I don’t feel good.’ I got him in the car,” Bootsie recalls, “and that was it.”

She stares into the distance and clears her throat before continuing.

“Thank God,” she says “for Darren.”

If he had found a job in town, as his older brothers had done, Bootsie probably would’ve sold the farm. It’s the work that keeps her going. She still gets up before 3 a.m. each day to help Darren in the milking parlor. They milk together for an hour or so, then Sam usually rolls in about 4 a.m. to take over for her mother-in-law. Not long ago, doctors discovered blood clots in Bootsie’s lungs. While lying in a hospital bed, she could hear her children talking.

“They thought I was sleeping,” she says, “but I wasn’t.”

She heard one of them say, “That’s the end of Mom going back in the milk house.” But she proved them wrong.

Bootsie takes comfort in knowing that when Darren retires, the land will be passed on to Wyatt. It will be nice to keep it in the family.  

“Wyatt knows what he’s getting into,” she says.

His life will revolve around work. Early mornings, long nights; he might as well kiss his weekends and holidays goodbye.

“And a vacation?” Bootsie says. “You just can’t do it.”

Perhaps that’s why so many farms are disappearing. There is simply too much work involved. Each year, more young people like Ethan move away. Few return.

“Ethan just never really had that much interest” in being a dairy farmer, his grandmother says.

In the U.S., the number of new farmers younger than 35 rose slightly between 2007 and 2012. But the total number of farmers fell 20 percent, according to the federal Census of Agriculture. As more farms disappear, rural communities like Dubois County are losing their identity.

“It is concerning,” says Annette Applegate, who teaches agriculture science at Forest Park Junior-Senior High School in Ferdinand.

Applegate grew up on a farm near Schnellville. Her parents raised cattle and ran a retail greenhouse. She was active in FFA and 4-H, showing beef, swine and sheep at the county fair.

It’s important for students to know where their food comes from, Applegate says, “so they can learn to appreciate what farmers do and what they provide.”

Dairy farms have dwindled, but those that remain have grown in size and are producing larger amounts of milk. Improved milking equipment and more modern milking parlors have led to larger herds. In 2002, the average dairy farm in Indiana had 52 cows. In 2012, that figure rose to 73.

“The farms that are left are going to have to get bigger,” Applegate said. “With dairies, if you’re not real big, you’re not going to be able to market your product.”

Ethan lugs a big white box to the far corner of the dairy barn at the Dubois County 4-H Fairgrounds.  

He sets the box on the ground next to a stack of hay bales. The box is filled with halters, lead ropes, brushes, soap and a water hose. A line has formed near the show ring. Dozens of 4-Hers and their parents wait to get their show numbers and parking passes.

For the next week, Ethan will live at the fair. During the day, he will roam the grounds and take in the sights. His nights will be filled with livestock shows and grandstand events. But most of his time will be spent in the dairy barn, tending to his animals. In the big white box, he packed Little Debbie snacks and a deck of cards to pass the time.

Ethan has been showing livestock at the local fair for as long as he can remember. It has always been the highlight of his summer. Next year, he may enter an 18-and-over show at the Vanderburgh County Fair, but “it’s not going to be the same,” he says.

His entire family packs the stands when he competes at the Dubois County 4-H Fair. But if he enters the Vanderburgh County show, only a few relatives will make the trip.

After heading off to college, Ethan will still help around the farm. He doesn’t mind mowing the grass or doing other odds and ends. But he doesn’t want to get up before dawn each morning to milk the herd.

“It’s no fun,” he says. “You can’t do anything else.”

His mother is standing nearby, chatting with other 4-H parents. Sam is proud of her sons. They have chosen different career paths, but she has been supportive of both. When asked about the dwindling number of dairy farms, she shrugs.   

“That’s just with our society in general,” she says. “People think they’re too good to get dirty.”

Her boys, though, will be fine.

“They know how to work,” Sam says. “So they can always take care of themselves.”
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