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. 

How Quicken Saved My Marriage

It's that time of year again. 

Time for Hubby get ready for taxes.

Each year I would contemplate leaving home, but I never knew exactly when the time would strike.  As it was, I would usually seclude myself in the sewing room or just find an urgent need to go to the grocery.  Then it would go on for days, so that was only a temporary solution.  We would all creep around the house, whispering and tip-toeing because daddy was "doing the taxes".

You see, Hubby is a man who literally thinks in numbers.  They just make sense to him.  So naturally he does the taxes.  He also is scrupulously honest and slightly paranoid, so he keeps every scrap of paper that he thinks the IRS might need if they chose to look.  He also is a totally disorganized bookkeeper and file clerk.

 In fact, his file was a shoe box.

His account book was another box with all of his cancelled checks for the year.

His method for preparing his taxes was to get the two boxes and commandeer the dining room table.  He then would proceed to go through every check and every receipt and put them in piles on the table.  Each pile would represent a deduction, such as vet bills, cattle supplies, fencing, repairs, etc.   When all the scraps of paper were assigned to a pile he would total up each one, creating a list for the accountant to use for filing our taxes. 

By the time he finished he was in deep despondency.

By the time he left the boxes at the accountants, the accountant was in deep despondency.  In fact, he may have been the only one to dread the appearances of the boxes more than me.

Then, in a moment of insanity, I hesitantly suggested that I might be able to help out.  Hubby's look of disbelief spoke volumes.  I do NOT think in numbers.  In fact before the advent of calculators I would be hard pressed to do simple mathematics.  However, I do like computers and all their programs.  I proposed that I would enter all the checks into a new program called Quicken.  Then all we would have to do is print out the resulting lists of checks.  He reluctantly agreed to let me try.

What I didn't realize was that the challenge would be deciphering his system into Quicken's categories.    For example:  Truck gas went into one category for farm use.  Car gas went into another.  Unless, the truck was used for personal use, then it was car gas.  Or if the car was used for farm use then it was truck gas. 

Then there is the problem of figuring out what the check is actually for.  For one thing, Hubby's first grade teacher must have been on leave when they taught writing.  He just has terrible penmanship.  Then he adds cryptic instructions on the memo line.  2B-BM.  Once I quit giggling, I figured out that was 2 bulls to B. Mattingly.  Occasionally, even he couldn't read it and we'd have to do some creative investigating to determine were to categorize the expense.

It hasn't been all smooth sailing but eventually we worked out a system that has allowed us to print a report for the accountant to use (with lots of mark outs, notes, and messages written on it!)

The accountant was so excited he almost cried.

The Cows Are Out

There are few calls that come in to a farmer that cause him to jump faster than the one that starts, "Your cows are out!"  The other Sunday we were just settled in for a little quiet time.  Hubby was watching a ballgame and I was talking to my sister on the phone.  Right in the middle of our conversation another call came in.  Checking the number, I realized it was a neighbor, so I poked hubby and told him to call back on his cell.  Within seconds he had jumped up and was grabbing his coat, starting for the door.  "Wait!"  I yelled.  "What's going on!"

"Those fool cows are out and heading for the road!"  he yelled as he pulled on his boots and grabbed his hat.  With that he was gone.

In a bit I heard the ranger roaring down the drive and knew the round-up was on.

Fences are the never-ending chore.  No matter how good the fences are, cows have an instinct for finding the post that is rotting underground and ready to be shoved over, the section that has stretched and can be pushed down and trampled, or the post that has weak staples and can be tugged loose.  This time it was a post along the creek that had been undermined by the flowing water.  Once it was down, the cows clambered down the bank, crossed the creek and entered the now empty tobacco patch.  The tobacco patch has no fence and borders the little road in front of the house.  They were happily heading for the roadside weeds when Hubby and our son arrived.

Using the four-wheeler and the ranger (like cowboys used their ponies) they started rounding up the frisky cows.  In any herd, there is always one that is the ring-leader for mischief.  Get her headed in the right direction and the rest will follow.  It wasn't long until they spotted the ring-leader--she was the one turning on a dime, dodging past the four-wheeler and charging back to the open field.  "Head her off!"  screamed Hubby, and the race was on.  After several sliding turns in the mud and a couple of reverses they finally had her and her herd heading for the creek. 

Upon reaching the creek bank, son slipped off the four-wheeler and slid down the bank to continue the herding process.  Stepping into the frigid water he kept to the line of rock that would allow him to cross in a shallow area, thus keeping water from coming over his boot tops. (Every farmer learns these shallow places pretty quickly.)  Shooing the last cow through the gap in the fence, he turned to return to the bank and get his tools to fix the fence. 

He had just reached the ranger, to get a shovel and a hammer, when a shout from Hubby brought him up short.  "GET BACK YOU BITCH!!"  Wheeling around, he realized the ring-leader was heading for the gap with her whole herd eagerly following.  Knowing that in seconds they would reach the breached fence and escape once again, he leaped for the fence.  In his hurry he forgot to watch for his little ledge and stepped into deeper water.  Freezing water rushed into his boots which immediately became glued to the bottom of the creek by sheer weight.  Already moving forward in his headlong rush to stop the cattle, his momentum carried him face-first into the creek.  His outraged yell carried to the ridge top.

The ring-leader cow stopped just short of the fence, looked at the wet, furious human at her feet and gave a short cow snort that sounded a lot like a laugh.  Turning aside, (as though she had never intended to cross the fence) she wandered off, chuffing a little chuckle as she went.

Probably wise.  I think son was envisioning using cow-hide for fencing material.

The Tiger is Loose

The call came into my son last week from his friend, "Tell your dad that the tiger is loose!  I repeat...the tiger is loose!"  Laughing, my son obediently called his dad and relayed the news.  Hubby hung up the phone and grinned.  "It looks like Mark is out and about again!"

Several weeks ago we had another call that a big, farmer friend, (and I mean big literally) had lost a battle with a crazy cow.  It seems he had been wading into a group of cattle to sort them out when one of them just went a little crazy.  Dropping her head, she charged, knocking the farmer down, then continuing to head butt him as he was on the ground, pinned to the fence.  Fortunately, his son was helping and rushed to head the cow off.  They pulled his dad to safety then loaded him, protesting, into the truck and off to the hospital. 

When we heard that he was actually staying in the hospital, we knew he was really hurt.

It turns out he had a broken pelvis, cracked ribs and bruises.  He was going to be housebound for a while.  Any time you take a farmer who is used to being out every day, checking on things, doing his chores and seeing that everything is done to his satisfaction and tell him he is going to be delegating chores for a while, it is bad!  Real bad!

In total frustration he read books, watched television, and stared out the window as his chores were done by others.  There are few things that will drive a man crazier than seeing someone doing something and you can't show them how they could be doing it better!  It's not a reflection on the helping friends and relatives.  There isn't a farmer born that doesn't put his heart and soul into his farm.  He knows every inch of land, every gate that sags and needs lifting,  which calves need a little extra feed, and which waterer is likely to freeze.  He knows where the best hay bales are stored for the new mama cows,  which cows are likely to need extra attention close to calving,  and where the cattle like to hide during blustery, cold winds.  He's learned how the barn door has to be propped to keep the wind from blowing it open,  how the key has to be jiggled to get the old tractor to start and a thousand other things that come from being there day in and day out.  All information that just cannot be explained to others.

His buddies rushed to the rescue.  No, not to do the chores, but to entertain him while he recuperated.  They came in shifts to tell him stories, repeat the latest news (gossip), and assure him that his son and hands were trying hard...and he could probably get it straightened out by summer!

Time passed slowly.  So when the word arrived that the tiger was loose, we all gave a little cheer.  (Probably none so loud as the helpers!) 

It's good to have you out again ...and don't believe everything they tell you.   You'll have everything back in shape well before summer.

(FYI -The crazy cow is now hamburger.  Enjoy your Big Mac.)

Storm Time

Kentucky has been pummeled this week with a stream of storms marching across the state.  I sat the other night listening to the news warning of "Ping-Pong ball" sized hail, 60 mph winds, and torrential rains.  The newscaster warned that there would be roof, window and siding damage from the hail and that any creature outside during one of the outbursts of hail would be injured.  He went on to say, that with 60 mph winds there would also be damaged roofs, homes and fallen trees. 

This line of storms was going to be north of us, but I have to say that my second thought, after one of concern for the folks in the path, was for the poor insurance agents who would be inundated with damage claims.  I know.  I married one. 

Weather is the number one concern of farmers.  They worry about too much, too little, too late or too early.  They deal with the ravages of the storms both on their animals and their land.  The only others that I know that worry that much are insurance agents.  A major storm means problems for the insured as well as their agent.  Add the two together and you have a man that paces the floor and mumbles a lot.

Several years ago we were the ones in the path of the storms.  I have only gone to the basement twice to hide during vicious weather and that day was one of them.  Looking out the window I saw a wall cloud marching steadily across the field and heading straight for us.  I didn't even know what it was, but I knew it was serious.  I yelled for my daughter and we both flew down the steps to the basement.  Our basement isn't additional living space but a dingy, concrete storage area filled with boxes and left over stuff.  Not an appealing place, but it looked pretty good to me then.

Huddled there we listened as it sounded like the world was being torn apart.  Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Silence.  We cautiously climbed the steps not knowing what would greet us.  The house was intact but the yard was covered with debris.  My beautiful trees were still standing but each one was sadly damaged.  They looked like someone had twisted the tops out of them.  Ragged chunks of wood had been ripped out and tossed to the ground. 

We fought ourselves out of the house and sadly surveyed the ravaged landscape.  Everywhere we looked were trees down, fences damaged, barn doors blown off, barn roofs pulled up, siding ripped off, electric lines down, limbs blocking the road, and over all the plaintive moans and bellows of the cattle as they sorted themselves out.

Shortly, Hubby and Son showed up, grabbed chainsaws and disappeared to check the cattle and clear roads.  Within minutes of their leaving to rescue our farm the phone started ringing.  With electricity out over much of the county,  the office had no lights, and more importantly, no computers, so everyone had left to take care of their own damages.  So the next call after the insurance office was the agent's home...except the agent was out checking his own mess.  Before he left, he warned me, "Everyone will be calling.  Get their names and phones and I'll call them back as soon as I check the farm."

For the next day, by the light of my trusty oil lamp, I answered calls from frantic people.  My heart went out to them in all their suffering for their losses and damages.  "Take pictures!" I implored, "Lots and lots of pictures!  Then secure your home as best you can to prevent further damage.  The adjusters will be there just as soon as they can."  And the adjusters did come, some by that night and more by the next morning.  They crawled over roofs, slithered under houses, sympathized and gave hope.  "Yes, it will be fixed.  Yes, you are covered." 

For days Hubby alternated between securing his own farm and tromping through fields and yards with adjusters.  He became a walking directory of the names of people who "fix" things,  helping this owner find a roofer, that one a plumber, another a contractor to replace siding. He was everywhere, lending a hand to spread a tarp, rounding up cattle that had strayed, cutting up downed trees, offering encouragement and assistance. 

Eventually order was restored.  Now it is just another of life's stories we tell at get-togethers.  However,  for me the memory I carry is of "Super-Hubby" charging off the hill to be sure that all his insured and/or friends were taken care of. 

He's quite a guy.

Herding Cattle

The view from the kitchen window was dark and gloomy this morning.  So I didn't spend much time looking out. 

About 8:30 a cheerful voice called through the open window, "Don't you even notice when you have a whole herd of cows in your yard!"  Jumping up I ran to the door to be greeted by the grinning face of our son.  "It was dark!" I sputtered.  "Where are they?"

Still grinning he responded, "I'd say they are about to the third row of beans, by now."

My beans!  Carefully nurtured for those precious late beans before the frost get them, they were just now in full production.   My tomatoes!  And the boys pumpkins!  Planted a little too late they were just now turning orange.  The little boys had checked them nearly daily for the change from dark green to pumpkin orange.  It was going to be a race to see if they would mature in time to be jack o'lanterns.  Somehow I just hate to let those last struggling plants in the garden go, knowing how long it will be before we have fresh vegetables again.

Now in full panic I dashed back into the house to jump into my clothes and garden shoes.  I emerged just in time to see my son appear with a feed bucket.  "Come on girls!", he called to the five heifers standing in the garden. (Not a whole herd but enough.) "Come on and get your breakfast!" he cajoled.  Stepping back on the porch, I watched as they focused on the feed bucket and the hope of some more goodies.  As they rounded the corner of the house,  my son's Australian Shepherd fell in behind.  I stared in open mouth amazement as the young dog, that we all had assumed would never amount to anything but a nuisance,  took the heifers to the barn.  As they headed down the side of the barn, she left them to run ahead and position herself in the drive.  There she neatly turned them through the gate and into the field.

"Did you see that!" came the excited shout.  "She's a natural!"

It was a pretty sight.  Especially since no one had really ever worked with her.  It was all instinct and genetic background.  Now, admittedly, the heifers were going back to the field where they were fed every morning. So they weren't exactly difficult to move, but she could have done the wrong thing and they would have kicked up their heels and taken off.  I've certainly had them do that to me.  Instead,  years of careful breeding for just those herding qualities came forward and she just knew what to do.  Amazing.

And we thought she was just another pretty face.

Get the Birds!

The back porch talk had drifted to the subject of dogs.  Good dogs, bad dogs, neurotic dogs (mine), heroic dogs (theirs) and unique dogs.  In a pause in the conversation my son interjected, "The dog I think I will never forget, wasn't even mine, but he sure was unforgettable!"

It seems that during the time he was living in Kansas he had helped a neighboring farmer during harvest time.  Mostly, I suspect, to play with the big equipment.  During their days together the subject of hunting came up.  The farmer expounded on the qualities of his fine hunting dog.  According to the farmer he was about the best thing that ever happened.  He would go on and on about his ability to find the best birds and flush them out.  Hunting season rolled around and Son mentioned that he was going to go try for a few birds.  "Take my dog!" the farmer offered.  "You'll be sure to come back with birds.  He's the best!"  Son was delighted and was about to mention that he really didn't know a lot about hunting with a dog, when the farmer continued.  "In fact, why don't you take my boys with you to help you with the dog?"  That seemed sensible, so a time was set up for the hunt.

Early the next morning the two boys, aged 11 and 16, showed up with the dog.  A big, muscular animal, the dog was fairly quivering with eagerness to be off on the hunt.  In fact, so were the boys.

The three of them started off and in no time the dog froze to a point.  At a signal from the boys he flushed a big pheasant.  Shots rang out and the pheasant flew away.  "That's OK", Son consoled.  There will be more."  The process was repeated several times with a couple of pheasants being shot.  Each time the dog retrieved the birds and proudly brought them to the hunters. 

They were continuing their walk with the dog ranging out ahead when suddenly he froze into a point in front of a pile of junk metal and weeds that was in the corner of the field.  The hunters approached and a huge covey of quail exploded in all directions. Since quail and pheasant season overlapped by a few days, both were in season, so the hunters banged away happily.  Seven birds plummeted from the sky. 

As soon as the last shot was fired both boys dropped their guns and made a dash for the dog.  Each grabbing whatever part they could hang on to they began screaming, "GET THE BIRDS!!  GET THE BIRDS!!"  Son stood there transfixed by the sight of the wriggling mass of legs, arms, heads, tail and snout as the boys attempted to hold the excited dog.  "GET THE BIRDS!!" they screeched again.  Startled out of his daze, son took off at a gallop to retrieve the fallen birds.  Hunting through the weeds as quickly as he could, he found the birds and stuffed them into his jacket.  Counting to himself as he went, one, two , three, four, five, six.  Where was seven?  He searched some more as the wail went up again. "GET THE BIRDS!"  Finally spotting it he snatched it up and returned to the boys. 

In bemusement he watched as the mass untangled itself into the identifiable forms of boys and dog.  Dusting themselves off the boys approached , with the happy dog following.  "What the hell was that about?!" Son demanded to the group.  "What happened to the dog?   Why did you tackle him?  He was perfect retrieving the pheasants."

Grinning the boys looked up.  "He doesn't like pheasant, but he loves quail!"

The boys went on to explain that he would have eaten every one of the quail before you could stop him.  "So we tackle him to keep him from eating them!"  Bursting into laughter Son looked from disheveled kids to hopeful dog, shaking his head in wonder.

It seems the perfect dog had one little flaw.  He really liked quail.

Chuckling to himself he couldn't help but wonder if he had actually been invited on the hunt to be the "retriever"!