"Farmers shouldn't be too sensitive about how their outfit is labeled. In the end, it's what they produce that matters," said Sam.

Sam was defiant, as editors tend to be after they've been thoroughly lectured by a reader.

"And a farmer's politics should be eclipsed by what flows out of the farm gate-blindly so, regardless if what leaves the gate is traditional commodity or something else," he droned on.

Me, I'd just finished a pork fritter the size of my head and was taking in the joint. There's something comfortable about a country tavern. It's an oasis from modernity's health-as-enlightenment stricturesÑa place where subtle vice still trumps social high-horse fad. It's the sort of place an editor feels at home.

"Food and fiber is the game, man. Do it 'conventionally,' 'organically' or Ôsustainably,' but do it well. And drop the identity politics. It doesn't matter if your farm is large or small. Since when were farmers motivated by self-esteem?" asked Sam, at which point he shifted slightly over the table and stared.

"Are you even listening?"

Sam is efficient at ruining ambiance, and well practiced. It's the normal course of events when we-two old cohorts in the ag press-have a chance to meet.

I scanned the reader's letter Sam had shoved in front of me. It was classic size-of-farm politics delivered in angry overtones: "We take great umbrage at the term 'hobby farm,' etc. Work an extra job just to keep a farm going, etc. Meet the USDA's definition of farmer, etc."

"And what spurred on such a spirited response?" I asked.

This evoked a sigh from Sam, and the tell-tale grin of the guilty.

"I wrote something about the need for 'real' farmers to take charge of agriculture," he said.

"Real farmers?" I said, amazed. "You earned this letter."

"I know. I also might have written something about 'hobby farms.' It's not the only letter I got. Turns out there's a rather eloquent goat milk cheesemaker and more than a few beef herds of a, well, certain size among my readership. Oh, and a retired couple that is quite successfully marketing native flower seed," he said. "And they all got hung up on the labels I attached to them, which wasn't even the point. Labels shouldn't figure in, that's what I'm saying."

I asked him if he'd bothered to read any newspapers after the fall elections.

"Remember how generalized labels helped ratchet up animosity?" I said. "And remember that we both complained about the press being lazy enough to use such generalizations in their reporting? Shoe is on the other foot."

Another sigh.

"Fair enough," said Sam. "How would you respond?"

"Seems to me that as agriculture shrinks in some ways, it will expand in others," I said. "The tent we pitch has to be large enough for everyone."

"The common cause bit, then?" asked Sam.

"Yes-together in the unique challenge of coaxing life from sun and soil and all that," I said. "And Sam, be sincere. None of those hollow reassurances like, 'size doesn't matter.'"

I paid the bill, and tipped well. Best to capitalize this country tavern, I thought. It's a place to come back to.

As we emerged into the street, after a blink from the harsh sun, we both noticed a wagon full of Christmas trees. $15 each.

Steve Fairchild, editor