Next Year County

Tradition
in our family goes way back
four generations, three traditions:
It was work, and it was hope, and
it was always disappointment.
Working hours, hoping next year
life would be a little better,
and we gave the land a name.
We call the farmland Next Year Country.

We love the hours before the sun is up,
in early morning mud and irrigation.
Father's back is sore from lifting, and
his knees are worn and tired.
Irrigation water is in his pant legs;
in his shirt sleeves
in the cold of early morning.
Love the taste of it around us.
Calves are playing in the pasture and
the shadows from the rising sun'll show
the corn is pushing up and peeking out;
the pinto beans are pushing up;
the winter wheat is waking up.
And there's a promise and a hope in all the work:
May the prices all be up, and
may the yields all be up.

We come in for breakfast.
Mom has eggs and bacon, toast and fried potatoes waiting.
Dad is eating with a magazine in front of him, and aching in his shoulders, and
the aching in his hands.
Mud across the floor for mom before we go.
My dad had dreams when he was younger of a ranch with Uncle Roy.
Uncle Roy who lost his son and lost his own dreams when that happened.
Mom had dreams she never told us, and
she put 'em off till next year.
Always next year in this country.
This is next year country here.

And it was work, and it was hope, and
it was always disappointment.
I don't care that I don't have a lot of education
'cause I love the hours before the sun is up
in early morning mud and irrigation,
with my back all sore from lifting,
and my knees all worn and tired.
Irrigation water in my boots and in my socks
and irrigation water in my pant legs;
in my shirt sleeves;
in the cold of early morning.
Love the taste of it around us.

We had dreams once of a good year.
May the prices and the yields both be up for once together.
Simple dreaming when I asked my dad,
"Where did we get that saying, 'next year country'?"
He told me, "Your grandpa's father used to say it long before we both were born.
It's always been.
It's always, this is next year country here.

Every day of every spring, in the early morning hours
calves are playing in the pasture and
the shadows from the rising sun'll show
the corn is pushing up and peeking out;
the pinto beans are pushing up;
the winter wheat is waking up.
And there's a promise and a hope.
And there's promise…hope.