Mothers, Grandmas, and Tornado Wranglers

A Carlson Harvest Mother’s Day Note

This farmplace, like many farms, runs on invisible labor and relentless devotion. Whatever Carlson Harvest has built, we built with the tools handed down by generations who didn’t flinch.

We didn’t inherit the land. We didn’t inherit the buildings. We built them.

This sign still hangs in my parents’ kitchen. My mom took it from her father’s implement dealership—a quiet gesture of steadiness when the doors closed for good.

What we did inherit were the habits. — Hustle. Backbone.

Now a Mother’s Day note risks shrinking larger-than-life people to a few neat lines. So trust this: the names here carry more story than best-selling novels could hope to hold.

Both of my grandmas, Etta and Vi, grew up during the Great Depression, and they carried its lessons throughout life—not as folklore, but as rules to live by.

Etta, my dad’s mom, never let leftovers leave the table. She’d portion them out by name—

“Andrew wants a little more. Tommy wants a little more.”

She wasn’t making suggestions. She was making sure nothing got wasted and everyone left the table full. That’s how she showed love—through presence, thrift, and consistent care.

Etta tried an MRE the week I left for Iraq during the Surge—her way of showing support when words weren’t enough.

Vi, my mom’s mom, grew up in southwestern Minnesota. She could pick off a pheasant with a shotgun and still manage the books for my grandfather Frank’s farm equipment business. She was the reason the business stayed afloat while others didn’t. No fanfare—just results.

Vi with a pheasant from the fields behind the shop—books balanced, birds cleaned, every part put to use.

My mom was a schoolteacher. She raised me and my sister with the efficiency and expectations of an old-country taskmaster—although for her, the old country wasn’t much farther than the South Dakota–Minnesota border.

My mom, mid-project with a needle gun—one of the skills I brought back from the Navy, now applied to a rusted-out boat trailer we’re turning into a rolling coop. Getting more done before lunch than most manage all day.

She didn’t play around when it came to doing things right—and early. Now in retirement, she’s still mucking the coop and putting ducklings on pasture, getting more done before breakfast than most folks manage in a day.

And then there's the one who keeps us steady today—holding the entire operation together with three kids in tow, a budget to balance, and honey labeled, boxed, and ready for pickup.

Picture someone who rides the tornado daily— with a to-do list in one hand and a half-packed lunchbox in the other.

That’s the reason this place doesn’t tip over when things get loud, fast, or sideways.

If Carlson Harvest stands for anything, it’s this:

You build on what came before.
And what came before was made by people who showed up, held the line, and made it work—without applause, without permission, and without needing a spotlight to make it count.

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Mother’s Day Sale | Friday @ 1500

We’ll be stocked up with fresh honey by Friday at 3 p.m. Pick some up for the mom, grandma, partner—or tornado-wrangler—in your life.

They’ve earned it.

—Andrew “Carl” Carlson
Carlson Harvest
Farmhand | Owner Operator | Raised Right