Backyard Safari

It was a hot summer morning a few years ago when I noticed a white van creeping slowly up our country lane.  Since we weren’t expecting anyone, I watched from the window as a middle-aged man in Bermuda shorts and a headband emerged from the driver’s seat and headed for the back door.  When I opened the door as he rang the  doorbell, it seemed to unnerve him a bit.

“Gu—gu—good morning,” he stuttered as he tried to regain his composure.  “I’m Professor So-and So (I never was good at remembering names) from a university in Missouri and we’re in the vicinity looking for ground squirrels.  We’re wondering if you have any on your property and, if so, would you allow us to live-trap them?”

In my usual composed state at meeting an environmentalist at my back door, I exclaimed, “Whaaat?  You want ground squirrels?  Why?”  I couldn’t think of one good reason to search for the destructive critters that ruined garden produce and dug boroughs all over the property.

He then explained that he was heading up a Ground Squirrel Relocation Project to reintroduce them in the state of Missouri where they had been eradicated through extermination programs.  Since ground squirrels rank third from the top of my Most Unwanted list, right behind deer and rabbits, I couldn’t imagine anyone purposely encouraging their survival.  

However, I was delighted at the prospect of sending a few south of the border—the Iowa/Missouri border—and quickly gave permission for the use of our property in the advancement of science.

In a feeble attempt to hide my glee, I smiled and said, “Sure!  Take all you want!  If you’d like, I’ll even show you where to find their holes!”

He assured me that he would have no need of my assistance because several students participating in the Ground Squirrel Relocation Project were waiting in the van.  I then wished him “happy hunting” and watched as several college-age environmentalists-in-training, wearing safari-like garb, climbed out of the van and began to scour our property in search of ground squirrels. 

Since we live on fifteen acres of land, the group had a large area to cover, but for the remainder of the morning, cover it they did—with white tubes that I soon recognized as the live traps.  Before they left, white plastic tubes were popping out of the ground in every direction—on the lawn, along the road bank, in the garden and pasture, and sprouting out of the strawberry bed.  To passers-by, I’m sure it looked as though aliens from outer space had invaded.

Later that afternoon, the van returned and the group once again emerged, ready to retrace their steps.  Examining their white tubes, they seemed ecstatic when they encountered an occasional ground squirrel.  These unfortunate fellows were then transferred into cages and carried to the van where they would begin their journey to unsuspecting lawns, flowerbeds, and gardens in Missouri. 

After a couple of hours, all of the traps were collected and the backyard safari ended.  The environmentalists-in-training and instructor returned to school.  As their van drove away, we spotted one running across the lawn with a strawberry in his mouth (ground squirrel, that is—not an environmentalist).  Life had returned to normal.

Most people are familiar with Abraham Lincoln’s immortal line, “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” part of his acceptance speech upon winning the party’s nomination for the US Senate in 1858.  Civil War was inevitable with the country divided over slavery and state’s rights.  The matter was eventually settled after four years of bloodshed, but 150 years later, we find ourselves once again living in tumultuous times. 

Deep political divisions exist across America with people on all sides claiming to know The Truth and asserting moral superiority over the other.  Using a variety of news sources—MSNBC and FOX, Time magazine and the Weekly Standard, talk radio and NPR—one can easily get the feeling of living in an alternative universe, so different is the content of the reporting.  Facts are hyped, invented, or completely omitted, depending on the desired political spin.  Each side paints the other as wild-eyed fanatics, hell-bent on destroying the nation.   

Unfortunately, in this hotly contested election year, we have no Lincolnesque figure stepping forward with the courage or wisdom to address a growing crisis and cautioning that a house divided cannot stand.  Radically different ideas have always been the stock of American politics and our history is rich with tales of raucous campaigning.  Through it all, however, we’ve always respected the right to differences of opinion and held fast to the ideal that “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it” (E. B. Hall, 1906).

Sadly, in today’s political climate, there is a growing tendency to squelch disagreement.  People who express political beliefs contrary to a certain political point of view are called “extremists,” “nut-jobs,” “wack-o’s,” and worse–on both sides of the aisle.  Civil discourse and debate are disappearing from the political landscape, replaced with name-calling, insults, and an utter disregard for fact.  With  politicians, entertainers, and news commentators inflaming the discussion, combined with a 24-hour news cycle that allows for instant Internet posting, the situation is spiraling out of control. 

Perhaps it is time for everyone to step back, take a deep breath, and think about where we are heading.  “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”  Lincoln’s assessment is as true today as it was in 1858.  We cannot continue to be divided between the extremes of liberalism and conservatism.  We cannot change the biased talking heads in the media, but we can start a grass roots effort for a return to civility.  It will not be easy because most of us are deeply planted on one side or the other in the political divide, but we must stop encouraging sarcasm and insults. 

Instead, we need to find our way back to respect for differing opinions, debate of opposing ideas, and ways to compromise on key issues.  If not, the house divided will most certainly fall.  On the other hand, a house united for the common good around the long-held principles of mutal respect an civil discourse can only grow stronger.

A Teachable Moment–Iowa Style

Several years ago, I picked up Timmy, my then-kindergarten-aged grandson, from school.  He came running to greet me, exclaiming, “Grandma! I have something in my book bag to show you!”

 “But I can’t show it to you in here,” he whispered. “You have to wait ‘til we get outside.”

Remembering the grasshopper he’d pulled out of his pocket earlier in the week, I could only imagine what might be hiding in the dark recesses of his book bag—and my fears were confirmed within seconds of leaving the building. 

 “Grandma!  I have a worm in my book bag—in the zipper pocket.”

 “Oh?” I said, attempting to sound nonchalant. “Where did you get a worm?”

 “At recess.  We digged for worms in the dirt.”

“Does your teacher know?” I asked.

“Nope.  Nobody knows because I put it in my book bag when nobody was looking—except Billy was looking and he seed me.  I asked him if he was going to tell and he promised he wouldn’t tell.”

Helping Timmy into his booster seat, I wondered if this was how high school drop-outs got their start—smuggling contraband into book bags in kindergarten.  As we drove out of the school parking lot, I heard the zipper open on the book bag. 

“Here’s the worm, Grandma.  I think I’ll put it in the cup holder.”

“Oh no, Timmy,” I cautioned, “please don’t put it in the cup holder.  It’s probably kind of sticky.  Why don’t you just hold it until we get to Grandma’s house?”

Glancing back, I was relieved to see a small, two-inch, fishing worm and not a plump, eight-inch nightcrawler.

“Is it alive?” I asked.

 “Yeah, it’s alive,” he replied. 

 “Well, maybe it’s dead—but not very dead.”

As we headed south out of town and cruised down the highway, Timmy studied his worm and I hummed along to an Alan Jackson CD.  My enjoyment of the moment ended abruptly when I noticed the interior of the car reeking of a stench that brought tears to my eyes.  I realized we were passing a field where a farmer was spreading, shall we say, “organic chicken droppings.”

“What stinks?” Timmy cried.  “What’s that yucky smell?”

Gasping for breath, I replied, “I think it’s that farmer over there in the field.  He’s spreading fertilizer.”

 Silence.

“No, it’s not fertilizer, Grandma.” Timmy said softly.  “It’s my worm.  It died.  I think you’d better throw it away.”

I opened the window and held my hand to my shoulder so Timmy could pass the little worm to me.  As it fell into my palm, I felt its cold, stiff, little body and without hesitation, tossed it out the window on to the highway.  Some lucky bird would get a free supper I thought.

By the time all this drama played out, we were past the offending “organic” smell and the atmosphere had returned to normal. I realized a “teachable moment” was at hand.

“Timmy,” I cautioned, “don’t ever put a worm in your book bag again.  It might die in there and then your whole kindergarten room will smell like that.”

“I won’t Grandma.  I promise.”

 EPILOGUE

When Timmy’s mom stopped to pick him up on her way home from work, I told her the story of the erstwhile worm and suggested she ask about the horrible smell when they drove past the fertilized field.  She reported back later she did as instructed when they came upon the offensive odor.

 “What’s that smell?” she asked.

A small voice from the back of the van replied, “It’s my worm.”

Playing Kong

The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool  of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too. Sam Butler

If someone told me a couple of months ago that I’d drop everything and dash outside to play a few rounds of ‘Kong’ at every opportunity, I would have said they were crazy.  I never ‘dashed outside’ for anything, nor had I been introduced to a slimy, gravely mass of rubber affectionately known as “Kong.”  A Black Lab named Buddy changed all that.

Buddy is a rescue dog who came home with us in January.  An 18-month-old pup, his first days with us were a bit of a trial as we soon discovered him to be a chewer—not your typical puppy-type chewer that snatches slippers, gloves, and stuffed toys.  Buddy was A CHEWER in capital letters—capable of destroying anything within reach—boxes of Christmas decorations, wooden chairs, tree branches, utility cables!  We quickly learned he needed to be confined and carefully watched —for our sanity and his own protection.  Bred to be a retriever and adopted as a ‘rescue dog’ who had been shuffled from shelter to shelter, he had a high anxiety level combined an instinctive desire to ‘mouth’ everything in sight.  

We attempted to assuage his chewing fetish by purchasing bags of ‘rawhide’ bones and similar doggie toys.  When he demolished the first large ‘bone’—one designed to last for days—within minutes, it became obvious that we couldn’t afford to keep him supplied with fixes for his oral obsession.  About this time, a friend suggested we try ‘Kongs’—hard rubber toys made especially for aggressive chewers like Buddy.  I’d never heard of them, but purchased one online and it was an immediate hit with the dog.  Designed with a hole at the end for stuffing treats and peanut butter inside, the Kong kept him happily chewing away for hours.

Two months have passed since Buddy arrived and he has become acclimated to his new environment.  Puppies are like babies—they explore the world with their mouths.  Much of Buddy’s chewing was simply his way of learning about his surroundings.  Now that he has grown accustomed to being here, the mega-chewing episodes have ceased. The Kong, however, has become his constant companion—not for chewing, but for playing.  Like a little boy carrying his mitt and glove everywhere, Buddy carries his Kong in his mouth hoping to find someone with time for a quick game of fetch.

No matter what I’m doing, when Buddy brings his Kong, I head to the backyard for a couple of tosses.  He is a magnificent retriever!  In seconds, he can catch his Kong on the fly, on a bounce, out of bushes, or get it down from low-hanging branches.  (Not saying I go outside at night—but he can even find his Kong in the dark!)  Of course, the Kong isn’t in pristine condition like when it was new.  It has transformed into a slobbering mass of hard rubber, covered with dirt, sand, and dead grass.  Even so, I don’t hesitate to pick it up and throw it whenever he drops it at my feet. 

Buddy and his Kong have enriched my life.  It’s true, as Julie Church said  of her dog,  “I’m joy in a wooly coat, come to dance into your life, to make you laugh!”  Maybe you also have a dog—or maybe you have no desire to own a dog—it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that each of us takes time to “Play Kong” several times every day—spontaneous moments of fun that happen for no other reason than making us smile.  

The Elephant Ride

Have you ever missed an elephant ride?  Not a question often asked, but most of us miss an elephant ride or two over the course of our lives.  Sidda, the thirty-something   character in The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, recalls a time when the circus came to town and gave free elephant rides.  She rushed excitedly with her friends to the parking lot where the elephants stood waiting, only to hold back while her friends eagerly climbed up and set off on a grand adventure; her earlier enthusiasm drained away as she faced a new reality: fear.  Fear of injury, seeing her friends injured, or worse, prevented her from riding the elephant.  Years later, Sidda lamented her reluctance to join the fun and miss the chance of a lifetime.

While few of us have ridden an elephant, or even had the desire to ride one, most can relate to missing the chance to do something different.  Most of us, like Sidda, have passed on amazing opportunities—the chances of a lifetime—out of fear of the unknown.  The trip we didn’t take because it was too far, too expensive, too intimidating.  The friend we never made because we were too busy, too shy, too afraid of rejection.  The career change we didn’t make because it seemed too illusive, too challenging, too outlandish.  Why do we tend to pass on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and miss new adventures because of our fears?

Fear is, at times, justified.  More often it is merely a cover to avoid the biggest fear of all—the fear of failure.  What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?  Learn a new skill?  Invite an acquaintance for coffee?  Take a college class—or even pursue a new profession?  Update a resume and actively seek new employment—or possibly quit a job to pursue other interests?  Take a trip to exotic destinations?  Write a novel?  Reconcile with a long-lost relative?  The possibilities are endless and the prospects electrifying!

I recently saw a bumper sticker that read, “Live life to the fullest, this isn’t a dress rehearsal.”  While it’s comfortable and safe to stay in a daily routine, life may be passing you by.  All too quickly, days turn into years, and years into a lifetime.  Maybe there’s  something tugging at your heart, whispering in your ear, and beckoning you to try something new, different, exciting.  Perhaps it’s time to take the first step toward turning a dream into a reality simply by making a phone call, scheduling an appointment, or discussing a possibility.  

When opportunity knocks, don’t just peek through the peephole and worry about “What if’s.”  Throw the door wide open and embrace the adventure that stands waiting.  Unlike Sidda who held back while others pursued their dreams, take a chance!  Run the risk!  Live life without regrets so you can look back laughingly and say, “That was some elephant ride!”

Caucus-opoly, A Wildly Popular Game in Iowa

A new game, Caucus-opoly, is flying off the shelves in Iowa and predictions are that its popularity will soon be spreading to other states such as New Hampshire and North Carolina under various names such as Primary-opoly and Campaign-opoly.

Players must first select a game piece.  The options are a miniature staffer with an ear bud, a small, constantly ringing telephone, a patriotically decorated tour bus, a tiny TV screen with a political ad, and a talking head.  Game developers considered another game piece, the ballot, but decided it would be irrelevant due to few players actually getting that far. 

The game begins with all pieces being placed in the starting corner called “The Feasibility Study.”  Players supposedly use this square to decide if they are really going to play, but it’s merely a formality as all will continue around the board and try to win the caucus vote.

As in all ‘opoly’ games, players throw dice to advance around the board and draw cards with positive or negative instructions which cast their fate.  Advancements usually follow cards being drawn from the “Endorsements and Experience” pile and players will be directed to make robo-calls, appear on media talk shows, and make campaign stops to speak to one hundred people in a location that seats twenty.  Setbacks always happen with cards drawn from the “Negative Ads and Scandals” pile.  Pulling a card from this pile may result in moving back several spaces or even falling off the board entirely because of a fate such as “Lack of funding,” “Old Girlfriend Speaks,” or “Debate Blooper.” 

While advancing around the board, players may land on the first corner called “The Latest Scandal.” If trapped here, pieces can only be released with a card called, “Voters Forget.”  The second corner, “The Latest Spin,” may direct players forward or backward, depending on whether the media or political advisors put them there.  The last corner, “Conflicting Poll Numbers,” is the most difficult hurdle in the final lap to winning the game as the directions may confuse players.

Caucus-opoly is wildly popular and being played at dinner tables and lunch counters, as well as break rooms and faculty lounges, across Iowa.  However, analysts tell us sales have peaked and the game will soon be forgotten as Iowans turn to placing bets on groundhog shadows and bowl games.

The Real Trouble with Christmas

Once again, the PC police are cracking down on Christmas—nixing nativity scenes on courthouse lawns and renaming Christmas trees as the more politically correct Holiday tree.  Traditional greetings have changed from, “Merry Christmas,” to “Happy Holidays,” with “Christmas Break” becoming the “Winter Holiday.”  All of this done in an effort to protect the sensitivities of those upset by public references to religion.  Having followed recent societal trends, I agree—we must stamp out Christmas!

Start with the great icon of all things Christmas—Mr. Claus, a sorry role model for children, indeed.  That jolly old elf, so chubby and plump, is hardly someone kids should emulate at the same time their government is banning obesity-causing potatoes in school lunches.  On the subject of lunches, just how much trans fat does Santa consume on his round-the-world cookie-eating binge?  As if Santa’s off-the-charts BMI were not enough,  consider his flaunting the law regarding non-discriminatory practices in his hiring of height-and-ear-challenged minorities, confining native antlered species in spite of wildlife protection ordinances, and failing to obtain permits to fly around the world—around the world, mind you—with eight methane-emitting reindeer.  The industrialization of the North Pole with that little toy shop in such a remote location causes one to wonder if he filed an environmental impact statement regarding the pollution of the ecosystem and its effect one the lives of polar bears and other endangered species. Oh, yes, ‘tis time for Santa to hang up the red suit and retire.

Frosty the Snowman’s behavior also begs reconsideration before setting him up as example for our children.  Not only does he smoke a corncob pipe that defiles the atmosphere and his snow lungs, one must wonder what, exactly, he’s smoking in that pipe if it makes him laugh and dance around.  Oh, they say it’s the magic in that old silk hat he found, but we all know there is no magic in the hat.  It’s just another garment shipped over from a sweatshop somewhere in China.  The children follow Frosty right down the streets of town as he thumps about with those eyes made out of coal, no doubt mined without concern for carbon emission standards.  Even though he knows they are following—after all, he has been taunting them with, “Catch me if you can”—he leads them right up to the traffic cop!  Any responsible adult snowman would model proper behavior while children are watching, but Frosty runs right past the law enforcement officer even after when he hollers, “Stop!”  Sadly, it is quite evident that Frosty, like Santa, must not come back again someday.

In another affront to our PC sensibilities, the treatment of Rudolf by his peers is a classic case of bullying, if ever there was one.  Not only did they refuse to let poor Rudolf play in any reindeer games, all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names.  It appears that none of them knew the Three R’s of Bullying as they mocked him and refused to accept him for the reindeer he was irregardless of his peculiar red nose.  None of them showed any concern for Rudolf’s loss of self-esteem.  Thankfully, Santa needed a light so bright to guide his sleigh one night or who knows how much harm would have been inflicted on Rudolf’s psyche. 

 

Christmas has become a federal holiday celebrated totally outside the boundaries of political correctness.  We hang mistletoe to encourage sexual harassment and hand out candy canes to mock the disabled.  We constantly sing about being home for Christmas with a total disregard for the feelings of the homeless.  Non-organically certified Chestnuts roast on non-permit-approved open fires emitting toxic chemicals.  Perhaps the most troubling of all is the tendency to make the season bright, a time to be happy and generous.  This lack of concern for the sad and miserly among us is appalling.

Yes, we must stamp out Christmas!  Not only is it the politically correct thing to do, it would also appease those tender souls offended by the sights and sounds of a religious celebration proclaimed federal holiday by Congress in 1870 and honored by people throughout the world for centuries

The Turkeys Who Thought They Were Ducks

In keeping with the traditional turkey theme for November, what follows is the true story about some turkeys that lived on our farm many years ago….

I was teaching back then and carpooling to a school about fifteen miles away with a friend and coworker.  When the school year ended, Mary had a problem.  The turkey eggs in her elementary classroom had not hatched as expected for the final science experiment of the semester.  As we were closing down our classrooms to leave for the summer, Mary and I decided to bring the eggs to my farm home to finish incubating.  While she drove slowly on the hilly roads between the school and my house, I sat in the passenger seat and carefully held the incubator and eggs.  Parking by the back door, we gingerly carried the equipment into the house and hoped the eggs remained undamaged in transit.  

Two days later, tiny pecked holes miraculously began to appear on the shells.  The eggs were still viable and the baby turkeys were hatching!  Three fuzzy turkey poults survived.  Since I knew next to nothing about raising turkeys, I simply added them to a flock of ducklings I had recently purchased.  The turkeys and ducks bonded immediately–and the turkeys grew up believing they were ducks. 

While they had everything turkeys could want—oats to eat, water to drink, and oodles of bugs to chase all day long, they simply did not want to do turkey things.  They only wanted to hang out with the ducks and do duck things—scoop up corn with their bills, waddle around the farmstead, and try to eat grass.  They even wanted to sleep in the duck barn with the ducks.  This worked well until mid-summer when they’d grown too big to squeeze through the little duck door.  After several futile attempts at pushing themselves through the small opening, they relented and climbed the grain elevator each evening at sundown to sleep on the ridge row atop the corncrib.  This arrangement worked well as the corncrib was a short distance from the duck barn and they could rejoin their friends every morning

The trouble really began one summer morning when the ducks waddled down to the farm pond.  Suffering from an identity crisis, the turkeys followed behind and decided to swim with the ducks.  They’d accompanied their friends to the farm pond several times, but never, until that hot morning in July, had they ventured into the water with the ducks. 

What a commotion erupted at the pond!  The birds were in a state of panic, quacking and cackling, with wings flapping and feathers askew!  Swimming in circles, the ducks quacked hysterically while the turkeys sank in the water with their feathers wet to the skin.  Upon hearing the noise and realizing the impending disaster, we ran down the hill, waded out into the water, grabbed the drowning turkeys, and carried them to safety. 

Drying their feathers in the sun and recovering from their brush with death, they must have realized it was too dangerous to keep acting like ducks.   While the ducks continued to live life according to duck rules, the turkeys stayed more to themselves, content with doing turkey things–eating oats, catching bugs, and gobbling at passers-by.  

In November most people think about roasting turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner.  I, on the other hand, remember the summer of 1971 when some eggs hatched out in my kitchen and the turkeys that grew up thinking they were ducks.

Uncommon Common Sense

On any given day, in any given news broadcast, we hear the latest report from the latest study by some expert, somewhere.  In my humble opinion, the experts are overwhelming us with the results of such diverse research as the disastrous consequences of eating too many Big Macs to the psychological harm of cuddling babies.  I’ve read several such studies with their dire warnings and my head is spinning from the contradictory advice.

Last week, overweight people were near death’s door, costing society millions in healthcare dollars.  This week, those same people are not only healthier and happier; they most likely can’t help their size because of some hidden genetic code.  Yesterday, too much exposure to the sun caused instant death.  Today, we hear that we need the sun for Vitamin D to strengthen our bones and sunrays can actually prevent some forms of cancer.  Last week, the food police told us to avoid fatty foods at all costs—or die.  Now, we learn that our bodies need fat to help absorb other nutrients, and growing children require it for proper brain and bone development.  The food pyramid has been turned upside-down and inside out, and is currently lying on its side.  Which expert and study are we to believe?

How did Grandpa and Grandma do it?  How did they live to be eighty and ninety years old without studies to tell them to cuddle their babies, keep physically active, and eat a healthy diet?  How did they know that allowing children to sleep with them until they were five years old would harm the child and the marriage?  How did they conclude that driving too fast caused more accidents?  Most surprising of all, how in the world did they figure out kids would gain weight if given unlimited access to soda and candy?  To think—they reached all of these sage conclusions without the advice of any multi-million dollar government-funded study!  

Back in the day, our grandparents looked elsewhere than the latest study for guidance.  They relied on something called ‘common sense’, a rock-solid philosophy that guided them through life.  It told them amazing things.  You ate too much–you’d gained weight.  You sat around too much–you’d be sick.  You let your children run wild-you’d have trouble.  Perhaps our modern-day experts would do well to conduct one final study: “How to live life without fear and confusion by following your own common sense.” 

Unfortunately, common sense has become rather uncommon.  Instead relying on ‘gut instinct’, this generation reads warning labels and searches Google for advice.  Statistics and studies have replaced good old-fashioned common sense that served us well for generations.  While some studies serve a purpose and some findings are worthwhile, there are many times when we can safely ignore the results.

When the latest report contradicts conventional wisdom, it needs deeper scrutiny before accepting it as truth.  As with Hollywood scandals and political polls, ‘expert studies’ will always be in the news.  However, their dire warnings need not be cause for alarm if uncommon common sense says otherwise.

 

Confessions of a Fair-A-Holic

Okay, I confess.  I am a fair-a-holic.  I go a little wacky every September because of a 10-day event called the Clay County Fair.  Meandering through the fairgrounds is a way to get lost in another world and take a trip down memory lane.  The fair has something for everyone and people of all ages love the fair.  I’ve been crazy about county fairs since I was a kid in the Boyer Valley 4-H Club and showed my dad’s purebred Angus cattle at the Crawford County Fair. 

I usually entered two or three young heifers and the weeks leading up to opening day were hectic as I fought with my cattle to “‘break them to lead.”  This wild process began with the halter.  Since they spent their entire lives roaming free in the pasture, they usually weren’t too keen about feeling leather straps behind their ears and around their faces.  I started the process by slipping the halter ever so slowly over the head while the nose was in the feed trough.  One wrong move spooked them and they backed away, leaving me to wait patiently until they calmed down enough to return to their feed so I could start over.  Eventually, they allowed me to slip the halter on and off with no problem while they nonchalantly chomped away.  When the time finally came that they didn’t mind the halter, I left it on them all the time so they became accustomed to it before moving to the next step in the training.

The real work began after they were used to a halter and I introduced the lead rope, an 8-foot-long piece of hemp rope clipped to a chain on the halter, under the heifer’s chin.  This eventually gave me command of the animal, but getting command of the animal wasn’t all that easy—a skinny farm girl was no match for a 900 pound Angus heifer!  It was a battle of wills that started with tying the lead rope to the bunk and slowly clipping it to the halter.  The heifers were shocked when they finished eating, tried to back away, and discovered themselves held captive.  They exploded!  Ranting and raving, they bucked and bent, pulled back, rammed the bunk, twisted their heads, snorted, and foamed at the mouth.  Simply put, they were put out.  I stood safely out of sight in the haymow, watching the battle with my knees shaking.

Leaving them to their misery, I left the barn and returned an hour later to sneak up to the trough from the opposite side, unclip the rope, and turn them loose for the day.  The next day, hunger overruled caution, and they returned to the trough while I secretly clipped the lead rope to the halter.  Once again, they fought being captured, but to a lesser degree.  By the end of the week, they were used to the idea, and stood quietly without fighting.  It was then that I untied the rope and started training them to lead.

This, too, became a battle of wills—who was leading whom?  Instinctively, they tried to run and I held the rope with all my strength.  Early on, I painfully learned two cardinal rules of using hemp ropes:  wear leather gloves and do not loop the rope around a hand!  Obviously, I was no match against the strength of the animal and I usually needed to enlist the help of my dad.  He tied them to the front of the tractor for a tug-o-war: when the tractor pulled back, they pulled back.  Occasionally the calf won when the rope broke, but eventually they all stopped fighting.

Now, they were ready to learn to walk and stand still in the show ring.  Another battle of wills; another tug-o-war.  I pulled with all my might and tugged with all my strength, but if that black heifer didn’t want to move, she didn’t move.  Head down, front feet firmly dug in, she pulled back and I pulled forward.  Sometimes, I called for help.  I needed a quick-stepping assistant who could slap the animal on the rump and jump away before the hind feet kicked out in response to the sudden swat to the backside. 

After a great deal of sweat and frustration, my cattle and I had our act together. By show time, we were a team. Those classy black Angus heifers, groomed for the show with curly tails and clipped hair, walked proudly beside me in the ring, held their heads up, stopped foursquare with their feet appropriately planted underneath, and stood quietly while the judge examined them.  All of my hard work paid off as I won the Reserve Grand Champion ribbon one summer and placed second in showmanship competition the next. 

This brings me back to the Clay County Fair and my addiction. “The World’s Greatest County Fair” overflows with floriculture, horticulture, agriculture, agronomy, entomology, and modern technology.  It is entertaining to strolling through the commercial exhibits, stage performances, and competitive displays, but my heart always feels a tug to the livestock barns.  Walking through the dusty aisles, seeing the cattle, and sitting in the bleachers to watch 4-H shows, I drift back to a simpler time when I was a farm girl and the fair was the highlight of my summer.  I am, and always will be, a fair-a-holic.