Stranded!

Hubby and I grew up in a much less technologically advanced age.  Televisions were in the living room, telephones were on the wall, usually in the kitchen, and you were "called" to dinner when someone yelled for you.  On the farm we had a big, black bell that was rung to signal everyone to come to the house.  If it was noon, it meant dinner was ready and if you wanted to eat, high-tail it home.  If it rang at any other time it meant you were needed at the house.  Rapid pealing of the old bell meant put the tractor in high gear, it was an emergency. 

Now the old bell sags on its pole, covered in the summer with a high climbing clematis.  Communication now is by texts and cell phones. 

It took me years to get Hubby to carry his cell phone with him on the farm.  He just didn't want to be bothered.  He enjoyed the peace and quiet (if you can call riding a tractor quiet) and didn't want to be disturbed.  Over and over I nagged him to carry his phone.  "You never know when something will happen and you'll need it!"  "What if I need to get in touch with you!"  "I'm too old to go tramping to the back of the farm to drag you to the house when someone wants to buy a bull!"  He would reluctantly agree and would carry it for a few days.  Then he would forget, or decide it got in the way, or leave it in the barn.  Then I was back to flapping a towel from the yard and worrying.  You do that a lot if you are a farm wife. 

Then came the day that changed things.

Hubby had decided that the barn roof needing some of the metal nailed back down after a windstorm.  He carefully gathered his materials...hammer, nails, bucket (to carry things in) and the long extension ladder to reach the roof.  It was a pretty, sunny spring day and before long he was happily nailing down loose pieces of roofing.  There was a nice breeze and that made the temperature perfect for the job.  What I call "hot fudge sundae days"  warm and cool together. 

About mid-way through the job there was a sharp gust of wind followed by a metallic thumping sound.  Filled with a feeling of foreboding, Hubby inched over to the edge of the roof and saw his fears confirmed.  There, about fourteen feet down, on the ground lay his ladder.  From his lofty vantage point he looked over his kingdom to see who he could call to for help.  Then he remembered that I had gone to town for an appointment.  That was all right, he would just finish up his job and wait for someone to come along.

The afternoon wore on and the job was completed.  Still no one was home.  He stood on the roof and waved to signal his predicament to passing cars on the road that runs on the other side of the front field.  The first car cheerfully tooted a response and sped on.  The next one gave a big wave out the window as they passed by. As other cars passed, he got waves, toots and occasionally a shouted greeting.  None of them ever sensing his growing distress. Once, he even saw his neighbor pull into the drive, but his shouts were carried away on the wind and the barn was out of sight.  The neighbor, upon finding no one around, drove back down the drive without realizing Hubby was yelling frantically from the barn on the other side of the house.

In the meantime, I arrived home and went into the house to put up the groceries.  Again, his shouts were blown away by the wind and didn't make it to the house.  After a while, I did what farm wives all over the world do.  I walked out to the yard to see if I could hear the tractor running.  That's how we tell if everything is still o.k.  We listen and look and worry.  "Up here!!"  "I'm UP HERE!"  In confusion I walked around the house looking up...yep, there he was.  Sitting on the roof, looking very tired, frustrated and hot.  "Get the LADDER!!"  Looking around, I spotted it lying on the ground.  Realizing his dilemma, I soon had it hoisted up where he could reach it. 

Grinning, I taunted him as he climbed wearily down, "If you'd had your cell phone you could have called for help."

With a glare in my direction, he stomped into the house. 

However, he carries his cell phone now....most of the time.

Depot Street

When I was three, my dad sold our farm and moved us to town, to the never ending delight of my mother.  She vowed she would not return to the farm until she could have all the conveniences of town--namely running water and electricity!  My dad rented a building a block off main street and two blocks from the train depot and opened a new and used furniture store.  The new furniture, appliances, and woodstoves were on the first floor with the used furniture displayed in the upstairs.

This big old building, rumored to have been a livery stable in a former life, became my home away from home.

By the time I was eight I could walk to the Furniture Store from my house, especially if I cut across the back yards and through the black neighborhood that backed up to the train tracks.  Everyone soon knew who I was and I would be greeted with messages like "You tell your dad I'll be in this afternoon to make a payment on that couch.", "Tell Mr. Morris that I appreciate him delivering that refrigerator."  Sometimes reprimands were included, such as: "You need to quit cutting through Miss Elizabeth's back yard.  She's scared you're gonna tromp on her roses!"  Or, "Girl, it's too cold out for those shorts.  You need to get some long pants on."  (Dressing myself was not my strong suit--appropriate dress for me was whatever I liked.)

I loved the street where Daddy had his store.  Depot street ran from Main Street to, naturally, the train depot.  Trains still arrived at the old station, mostly freight trains, but a few passengers would get on or off.  When a train arrived the street would hum with activity as people went to the station to pick up relatives or loads of freight.

Down from the depot, the first store I would pass on my trek to town, was the hatchery.  (There were other stores, but they weren't interesting to me.)  I could never pass the hatchery without going in to see the new baby chicks.  There were stacks of wire racks with eggs in a heated room where the baby chicks would peck their way into the world.  Then the chicks were moved to the front in stacks of cages.  I could stand for hours peering at the tiny, fuzzy babies and listening to the continuous den of cheeping.  The hatchery supplied the surrounding farms with new chickens for eggs and Sunday dinners.  I was constantly scrounging odd jobs to earn money so I could go buy chicks at 25 cents apiece.  Daddy would rig up a cardboard box and a light bulb for heat and for a while I would be in the chicken business. 

A little further down I would come to the little restaurant owned by the gregarious Italian couple, Mary and Phillip.  A quick detour inside would usually get me a fresh biscuit or a cookie.  With Mary's melodious accent making every comment an adventure, I would chat about my day.  Soon she would send me on my way with a message of "Tell your daddy we're having Swiss steak for lunch.  I'll save him some."

Directly across the street from daddy's store was a building that housed the funeral home that catered to the black community.  The upstairs portion was where the owners lived while downstairs was the funeral home.  The Adams' were a lovely couple with two children just a little older than me.  Their front porch was always overflowing with beautiful flowers and friendly greetings.  I would occasionally play hopscotch or jacks with their daughter, but frankly she was too "girly" for me.  I would usually be in dirty shorts and a blouse while she was always perfect in a dress and hair bows.  I think her mother always wanted to take me in and clean me up! 

Just down the street from Daddy's store was the local pool hall.  A few years later Daddy would actually buy the business as a place for my Grandfather to operate as an escape from my Grandmother, however at the time it was a source of total fascination to me.  Since no women were allowed to enter I could only imagine the adventures that took place inside.  However, it wasn't long before I had made friends with all the teen-aged boys and young men that hung out there.  I spent many hours sitting on the stoop out front learning how to whittle, whistle through my teeth, arm wrestle, and spit.  Skills every little girl should learn. 

Daddy befriended many of these boys over the years loaning them money, helping them furnish apartments when they married, giving them jobs, listening to their problems and, often, helping them solve them.  They, in return, became the fierce protectors of his little girl. I was included on many adventures from night crawler hunting to fishing trips, because they were there to watch out for me.

Only a few more steps and you'll be on Main Street and the more respectable part of town.  For me, it didn't begin to compare to the delights of Depot Street.

The Dairy Show

Hubby and I were talking about old times the other day when he suddenly announced that he was going home.  "Home" being the county that we both grew up in.  He wanted to visit with the man who had farmed with him from the time he was just a kid.  We are all getting older and he hadn't seen Tee for years. 

Hubby's father had worked off the farm, leaving much of the farming to be done by his three boys and his hired hand.  Tee had been helper, conspirator, companion, teacher, and friend to the boys as they grew up.  Lots of life lessons were learned  from his wit and wisdom.  Some were serious, some educational, some useful, some just downright hilarious. 

During this time the boys showed a string of Ayrshire cattle at county fairs around the area.  Since most of the dairy shows were during the week, Tee was the method for getting the boys to the shows and supplying supervision.  Later, when I came on the scene, many of our "dates" consisted of going to county fairs to show cattle.  Hubby's mom would provide a picnic lunch of fried chicken, homemade bread and butter sandwiches, homemade pickles, potato salad or canned peaches, and gallons of sweet tea.  The guys would load the show string into the back of the two-ton stake truck and we would all pile into the front seat.  By that time, Hubby was the driver, Tee rode "shot-gun" and I straddled the stick shift in the center.

Upon arriving at the fair, the guys would take care of getting the cattle ready for the show, while my job was "fixing" lunch (spreading out what Hubby's mom had packed). I was a true "townie" and was fascinated with the world of showing cattle (and the one showing the cattle).  It was a new adventure for me as I had grown up in town and had limited experience with farm life.  Tee and Hubby worked as a practiced team with Hubby showing the cows and Tee getting them to the ring.  They had a good string of cattle and there were usually some blue and purple ribbons to bring home. 

On one particularly good day, the class for Grand Champion had three Campbell Ayrshires in the ring as previous winners of their divisions.  Hubby was showing a young cow, they thought would be the winner.  Tee was leading the second cow but they didn't have anyone to show the third.  Hubby looked at me and I started backing up.  "ME?  Lead that cow?  No, I don't know how.  Get someone else."  Soon I stood at the entrance to the ring holding the lead on a beautiful red and white cow.  "I don't know what to do!" I wailed in a quavering voice.  Tee turned to me with a grin,  "Missy, that cow's been in the show ring all her life.  She knows exactly what to do.  All you gotta do is hang on to the halter and let her do her thing!"  With that I became a dairy showman...at least for a few minutes.

Hubby did win Grand Champion.  I did get around the ring without getting stepped on.  Tee chuckled and shook his head the whole time.  "Girl, you're gonna be all right!" he pronounced as we exited the ring.

With Tee's approval I knew I was accepted.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Tagging Time

Spring has sprung and little black calves are popping up on the farm.

For years we calved in the cold months of January and February.  Calving season meant snow, cold, freezing mud, and occasionally frostbite.  This resulted in calves being carried through the snow to the barn, scrubbed free of mud, fed warm bottles of electrolytes, and sometimes even warmed in the utility room.  It didn't always happen this way but as we got older it seemed like it did.  Gradually we moved the calving time to March and April.  It certainly seemed sensible to me.  It didn't solve all the problems but at least you had a shot at better weather.

So now we've got new babies arriving.

With each new arrival Hubby and Son hurry to the field to record the important information.  Which mama, sex of baby, date of birth, and approximate weight.  Then they are tagged with a white tag with their number written on it. The tag is important because it helps to identify the calf (black Angus calves all look alike!) and also helps them keep up with their health information. This tag is punched through their ear, much like getting your ears pierced.  Not terribly painful but likely to get a bleat of surprise from the baby.  That bleat is the cause of lots of trouble. 

One of the best characteristics of our beloved Angus cattle is their mothering instinct.  They are great mamas.  That also means that when that baby is new they are super protective.  They don't like anyone or anything bothering their baby!  Fortunately, like most good mothers, as time goes by they will stand back and let their youngsters learn on their own.  However, at first, it is wise to keep one eye on mama.

The dilemma is how to tag the calf without mama coming unglued.

Hubby and Son have developed an amazing "tag" team approach.  They approach the new arrival in the sturdy Polaris ranger, which is our modern equivalent to a cutting horse.  Easing up to the baby, Son jumps out and grabs the baby, tagging tool in hand. while Hubby wheels the ranger around between the cow and the struggling calf.  Turning, wheeling, twisting, he continues to head the cow off while Son quickly finishes his task and jumps back in the ranger. 

This worked pretty well until the rains turned the fields into swamps of mud. This time with every pivoting turn and jumping start the wheels of the ranger sprayed a swath of gooey mud.  Hubby, intent on his task of keeping the cow blocked off, came to a stop upon hearing a muffled shout.  Turning back, expecting to find Son finished and ready to leap into the ranger, he was surprised to see two mud covered objects rolling on the ground. Son is frantically shouting, "Stop!  Stop!"  His efforts had covered both Son and calf in a layer of slick mud.  The tagging process had now turned into a "greased" calf wrestling match.  Son jumped for the ranger and announced that a new approach was needed.

The next idea was that they would take a feed sack and Hubby would wave the sack from the ranger and distract the cow into attacking the sack.  While she was occupied chasing the sack and ranger, Son would grab the calf.  This worked fairly well, with only a few close calls resulting in frantic leaps and wild yells when mama realized that the sack wasn't the one after her baby.

So the day came when Son decided he needed to tag a new calf and Hubby wasn't available.  He decided to use the feed sack distraction.  He would wave the sack and get the cow away from the calf, then when she was good and focused (mad) he would toss the sack, run to the calf, tag it and jump in the ranger.  The plan worked up to a point.  The cow was distracted, the sack thrown, cow attacked sack, Son grabbed calf, calf bleats, Son tags.  So far so good.  Son releases the bleating calf and runs for the ranger, arriving there about the same time as the cow.  She is not pleased.  Son slides in the passenger side and the cow follows.  He waves his arm.  She tosses her head and keeps coming.  He flaps his hat and she lowers her head and charges another few feet.  Now she has her head in the ranger and fire in her eye.

"OK Cow!!"  he yells, "If you want to drive, have at it!!"  With that he slid off the other side of the seat and into the ever present mud.  Nodding in satisfaction, that another human has been properly put in his place, the cow backs up and ambles off.

Scraping the mud from his jeans, Son slides back into the ranger seat, all the while muttering what about what cuts of steak he'd like to see that cow in.   

And we're having more calves every day.  Life sure is fun on the farm.

The New Calf

Spring has arrived on the farm.

As I look out the kitchen window I am rewarded by views of intensely green hills dotted with sleek black cattle.  The trees are fuzzily green with tiny, new leaves.  The air is filled with the sounds of birds, soft cattle lowing, dogs barking, and wind chimes being pounded by the brisk spring winds.  (When you live on a hill you get lots of wind!)

One of my favorite things is to walk the farm in the spring to see the fields come to life.  So, dragging the collie out of the house, I trudged off to see what was changing and growing.  We carefully picked our way through the mud around the feed barn and wandered down the hillside, admiring the dandelions sprinkling the fields.  We checked out the old walnut tree that has been home to generations of gray squirrels, looked for interesting footprints in the soft mud by the little gulley, crossed the little trickle of water and approached the creek. 

I love our creek.  It is shallow,  with lots of rock ledges that create little waterfalls, ripples and quiet pools.  The old trees lean over and form a shady tunnel in the summer that the sparkling water flows through.  It's full of crawdads which provide hours of fun for the grandkids and food for the huge blue herons that frequent the creek banks. 

As I walked down the creek toward the old bent tree that makes a perfect seat to reflect and ponder, I watched carefully where I stepped.  In a field that is home to a herd of cows, you are wise to watch where you put your feet.  I had already noticed the cattle grazing peacefully on the hill, enjoying the sun and warm weather.  The collie was off following his own idea of a fun pathway.

About that time I noticed a pool of bloody fluid on the edge of the creek bank.  "Hmmm.  We must have a new baby somewhere." I thought, continuing on my stroll.  Then a new sound penetrated my spring induced trance, Galump!  Galump! Galump!  Suddenly I realized that I was hearing the awkward gallop of a cow--graceful they are not!! My head snapped up and I swiveled around.  Sure enough bearing down on me was a mama cow in full charge!  Somehow, I had managed to get between her and her calf, and she was not happy! 

Glancing around, I frantically searched for the calf, all the while backing slowly up.  Then I spotted a pair of ears, peeking over a hump of dirt on the opposite creek bank.  I was lucky that mama had called to him and he had raised his head.  These little fellows are almost impossible to spot when mama has put them in a spot and told them to be still.  You can almost walk on one laying quietly in the grass.  Neat trick when you are black. Now that I knew his location I could move away from the baby and hope that she would go to him and forget me.  I'm too old to climb trees and an angry mama cow is nothing to fool with.  Fortunately, this period of over-protectiveness  wears off in a few weeks. 

Easing out of her area I called the dog and decided that it was time to return to the house.  A field full of new mamas probably isn't my best choice for a walk.  Later that evening, when Hubby got home from work, I told him about my findings and the new baby.  Things got busy and it was dusk before he went to find the baby and tag it.  (Each new baby gets an ear-tag with his ID number so we can keep up with his paperwork and health papers.  Last year they got busy and had several calves that got big enough to make ear tagging them a rodeo.  So this year we are working hard to catch them early!)  Hubby returned to the house and reported that he had evidently missed him in the low light.

After a restless night, Hubby was up before dawn fretting over the baby he had missed. With rain in the forecast, babies on a creek bank weren't safe. Tossing the covers off he announced he was going to check on it right now!  "What??" I mumbled from the covers, "NOW?  It's still dark!!"  "I've worried about that calf all night and I'm going to find it NOW!", he retorted.  "Umppf! You can't find a black calf in the dark ." I muttered pulling the covers over my head. 

By dawn we were riding over the back field in the ranger looking for a small black calf or an anxious mother.  We counted calves.  No increase.  We checked mamas.  Everyone calm and watching us with sleepy eyes.  We drove and drove.  The sun climbed.  No new calf in the field.  No mama looking for a baby that was missing.  No cows that were not pregnant that were supposed to be.  Hubby is now looking at me with that questioning look in his eye.  "I guess I could have been wrong and it wasn't that new...."  He kept looking at me.  "Maybe, I just didn't notice it was already tagged in the excitement of the moment...." 

We drove back to the house.  I've been fired as cattle checker.

We did have a wonderful sunrise ride.