Marcel Hacault made the transition from farmer to president of Manitoba Pork Council appear seamless.
“I would bring my hogs in, in the morning, take a shower in Pork Council offices, put a suit on and then go for a meeting.”
But as many who have served on the board of a farm organization will say, the metamorphosis from farmer to farm leader is far from seamless.
It can be a painful evolution that requires a huge time commitment, causes strains on farm and family, jeopardizes friendships and saps resources.
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Yet many say it is the single most rewarding work experience of their lives, providing the satisfaction of accomplishment, new intellectual experiences and rewarding friendships.
Most plan for board business to take a back seat to their family and farming operation.
“It didn’t always work that way,” said Hacault.
His job as the “visible presence” of Manitoba’s pork industry as it rapidly expanded in the early part of this decade took a heavy toll on his family because there was no shortage of critics who saw the industry as a heavy polluter.
“My children even got targeted at school because their dad was the pork guy.”
Friendships were tested by policy stances the board took, such as opposing the countervail duty proposed by corn growers.
“The guy who was supplying me corn wasn’t all that pleased,” said Hacault.
John Clair, who has served on several farm boards, including a stint as director of the Canadian Wheat Board, said personal sacrifice comes hand-in-hand with taking on a position of influence.
He kept a detailed log of the time he spent on wheat board business during his four-year term as a director. It averaged 110 days a year.
“The first year I had 63 flights on an airplane.”
Clair’s time away from home was particularly hard on his wife, who was forced to take on more farm tasks, driving trucks at seeding and combines at harvest.
She lost touch with her social network because when Clair returned from travelling, his last desire was to attend a neighbour’s dinner party or a community event in Radisson, Sask., where the couple operated a 3,000 acre grain farm with their children.
His wife wasn’t the only one who suffered a social setback. An avid curler, Clair was told by one of his super league teammates that they would hold a spot for him and find a substitute for the games he would miss. That generous offer was rescinded the following year.
“Your whole involvement in your local community changes and you do lose friends,” said Clair.
And then there’s the stress on the farm.
During his first year on the CWB board, Clair was called away three times during seeding. He was fortunate to have two adult children to take over many of the day-to-day aspects of running the farm and a cell phone to stay in touch when attending meetings in Winnipeg.
“We kind of worked out a little code that if there was two quick calls, one behind the other, it meant, ‘Dad, would you step out of the boardroom because we’ve got a major problem on our hands.'”
Clair didn’t have to take on a hired farm hand to replace him and was well compensated, earning $500 per meeting and $20,000 a year to cover the work he did at home as CWB director.
But most board appointments are not nearly as lucrative, as Cherilyn Jolly-Nagel, president of the Western Canadian Wheat Growers Association, can attest.
“Not a single person on our board of directors gets paid to do what we do. There’s no per diem. There’s nothing.”
If a director feels the need to submit expenses, the association will try to cover them.
But there is no compensation for a position that regularly usurps up to six hours of Jolly-Nagel’s daily activities. The first phone call in the morning and the last one at night is almost always wheat grower business.
“If it wasn’t for my husband coming in and literally turning off the computer and literally taking the phone out of my ear and hanging it up for me, I would probably be working way too much,” said Jolly-Nagel.
November was booked solid with speaking engagements, which Jolly-Nagel thrives on but other farmer board members find to be the worst part of the job.
Don Kizlyk, former president of the Saskatchewan Organic Directorate, recalls his first public speaking gig, which came a few months after he was elected to the position.
He was asked to speak at the appointment ceremony for Lon Borgerson, Saskatchewan’s new legislative secretary for organic farming.
Kizlyk was fourth up at the podium at the Eco-Centre in Craik, Sask., following premier Lorne Calvert, agriculture minister Mark Wartman and Borgerson.
It was an intimidating environment for a guy who describes himself as a “very solitary” person who does not relish the thought of speaking to large groups.
“The night before, I never slept all night.”
Kizlyk was kept awake by thoughts of what awaited him, running through his speaking points and anticipating questions from reporters.
“I thought of every scenario that I could think of that could happen. But I missed the obvious.”
The speakers who preceded Kizlyk stole his thunder, touching on every point he was about to make. When it was his turn, all he could do was stammer out his congratulations to the politicians for being so thorough.
Kizlyk said part of the problem was that there was no grooming or training for the position.
One day he was a market gardener from Wadena, Sask., who would go for weeks seeing no one but his family, the post mistress and the fuel guy. The next day he was sharing a podium with the premier and answering 15 e-mails a day.
“You don’t get that type of interaction when you’re out in a garden weeding,” he said.
So if being a board member is all about embarrassment, crummy remuneration and personal sacrifice, why do farmers take on these leadership roles?
For Clair it was the nagging feeling that he could do things better.
He recalls how he became a school trustee for 14 years. One day he was fuming over the direction the local school board was going and told his wife somebody should do something about it. She reminded him that he was a somebody.
“As corny as that sounds, that was probably the turning point,” said Clair.
He has turned board service into a second career. As he approaches 60, he remains active on several boards.
It is a rewarding venture that has exposed him to people from around the world and enabled him to forge new friendships.
“I grew from my experience on those boards,” said Clair.
Hacault has similar feelings about overseeing the transformation of Manitoba Pork est., a marketing board, into the Manitoba Pork Council.
He found the job more intellectually stimulating and socially rewarding than running a 100-sow, farrow-to-finish operation near Niverville, Man.
“After a while you get tired of talking to pigs,” he said.
Hacault cherishes the moments when he forged a consensus out of a board with individual agendas. And he loved being a strong advocate for the hog industry and agriculture in general, which has been besieged by finger-pointers blaming the industry for polluting the environment and abusing animals.
“We’re fundamental to civilization. Civilizations crumble when agriculture no longer exists and everybody is forgetting that,” he said.
In Kizlyk’s case, becoming a farm leader wasn’t so much a higher calling as it was happenstance. It was a matter of letting his name stand to represent Organic Crop Improvement Association Chapter 5 Inc. on SOD’s board of directors.
A year later, he became president by acclamation because he was the only member of the board willing to take on extra work.
Shortly after he became a director, he refused to attend meetings. But eventually, out of guilt, he started showing up and was intrigued to the point where he became an active participant.
“It’s kind of an addicting thing, surprisingly enough,” said Kizlyk.
But it wasn’t addicting enough to offset the discomfort he felt heading the organization. Kizlyk stepped down from the presidency in November but maintains his spot on the board.
“I’ve come to realize that I am better suited to a support position rather than a point position,” he said.
A bigger factor in his decision was something all directors wrestle with: setting priorities.
Although he described his seven months as SOD’s president as a “wonderful experience” the job was too demanding. It took a big bite out of his personal life.
“One has to put family ahead and I just wasn’t able to do that,” said Kizlyk.
Jolly-Nagel said she has been able to juggle being the mother of a six-month-old girl with her president’s duties, but it hasn’t been easy. Many meetings have been interrupted by the squawk of a hungry baby.
It would be easier to step down and have more time at home, especially considering it is a volunteer position, but like many directors she feels there is too much invested in the job and the issues are too important to ignore.
“We really feel that the changes that we’re advocating will make a big difference on our farms,” said Jolly-Nagel.
