Tennis Shoe Farmers
It is summertime, glorious summertime, when the days last all day and the sun reigns from the Northern sky and nothing exists to ruin the carefree, wonderful world of June-July-August except dentist appointments and rain! Even the night is part of the wonderful day, and you go to bed at night ready to wake at any hour, because something wonderful could happen, even if it is just nothing.
The sun rises at four thirty and at five o'clock Dad comes into your bedroom and whispers your name. "Hey," he says softly, "it's time to get the cows." Why whisper at all if the purpose of coming into the room is to arouse you from slumber? Ignoring the whisper is pointless, since it is purposeful. There exists a moment of disgruntled mood, on account of the deceit of the whisper, but then, the bright sunlight has already illuminated the room and the birds in the birch tree outside the open window cheer you awake. You climb out of bed wearing your farmer uniform of gym shorts and a t-shirt and pull on old running shoes and head out to the fields.
The greatest dog in the world tags along as you and Dad walk through the barnyard. Golden gravel crunching beneath your sneaker feet gives way to silky glossy shin high grasses of the pasture. They are soaking wet with dew and the entire landscape of fields, as far as you can see, are glittering like treasure.
"Hey Boss!" we call, which means "Hey Cows, Time to get up, no more dreaming for you! Time to get busy being a cow!" All across the pasture black and white cows begin to lunge to their feet, first their hind legs, then their fronts rise, leaving warm, dry patches of flattened grass in the wet sea of legumes. Some, the very old friends, are reluctant and so we walk from cow to cow, patting them on the rumps, feeling their warm sides and sometimes, when they have moved on, crouching down into their warm beds, tucking our big t-shirts over our cool wet knees, and staring the wet grass in the eyes.
But no more dreaming! Back to the task of being a farmer! Each August, we take our cows out of the field and to the fair. In June and July, we start chasing our cows around their pens, convincing them to follow along behind us on the halter and not bolt away or simply stop moving. The preparation is filthy business, involving fickle Holsteins and ancient technology (our clippers, purchased by our grandfather in 1968, and terrify cows on account of the noise, cover both the cow and the operator in diesel fuel--which we use to condition the blades--and routinely electrocute us all whenever hands or ears happen to glance the open wires) and somewhat tedious, because we know that for all our well intentioned preparation our cattle will not fare particularly well when they enter the ring.
It is hard, really, to link your personal value to a cow's performance in a competition against other cows.
Whenever the cows would escape, before we made moves to corral them back to their yards, Dad would gather us around and remind us, "you can't outrun a cow, you've got to outsmart it." And then as a side note, "and if you can't outsmart a cow, what good are you anyway?"
While in the ring, as my cow loses again, I remind myself that it's not me, it's the cow. She is the one who should be embarrassed. But considering the manner in which she continues to loll her head in an unruly fashion and stomp on my toes, it is clear that she has lost on purpose, to spite me for what she deems to be injustices doled to her.
I consider it from the point of view of the cow and really the show doesn't seem so bad. Bathed every day, brushed every day, half a week of luxurious appointment in an airy barn filled with all kinds of other cows and fresh straw; ah, but there's no reasoning with a cow.
I consider it from my point of view. I have to bathe a cow every day, brush a cow every day, and refresh the straw for a cow every day. However, I'm excited every year to spend time with friends in the dairy barn, eating Pizza On Earth and firemen's donuts, hearing about kids who were thrown in the stock tank and other kids who had their pictures taken with the lion cubs in Woody's Menagerie across the lane. Everyone in Boone County at the fair with a cow, dressed in white pants and white shirts (channeling the milk men of yesteryear and because white represents the cleanliness of the dairy industry, except when it becomes dirty and then it is just dirty) walking backwards around a room filled with a saw dust floor.
I weigh the tiresome and the delightful and again, things don't seem so bad for the cow.
So I tell myself "why do I care if this cow loses? I'm not the loser, she is!" And frankly, as she crushes my feet and covers me in twice digested bits of hay, I'm not that worried about crushing her self esteem.
But maybe there is a little bit of sting in the way the judge concludes his commentary with "this animal probably would have placed better had she been washed more thoroughly before entering the ring." I consider telling him, "yes, maybe, but she objected so strongly to haircuts and she splashes water on me every time I try to clean her, so..." The adage about outsmarting the cow rings in my ear, though, and so I keep quiet and exit the ring to join my friends and their attractive cattle in the hot dry August sunlight.
On principle, I want to congratulate their cows instead of them, but I think better of it for several reasons.
First, I don't want to deflate my own cow's confidence. Entering into a passive battle of wits and wills with a Holstein doesn't interest me. And really, I do love that dumb bovine. That is why I take her to the fair, year after year despite her cantankerous nature and dismal show results, because I enjoy spending time with her, (and I suspect she'll be disappointed if she doesn't go). Second, the victorious cattle are already busy eating their blue ribbons. They probably wouldn't even give me the dignity of recognition if I spoke to them. And third, I know that incredible amounts of time, skill, love, and dirty work have gone into their victories. There is a reason that my friends have won again: thoroughly better showmanship (and partially better cattle and equipment--my friends, after all, wear stylish work boots).
We are tennis shoe farmers, and maybe that is our fate: that we should have cows with real personalities who escape from their pens from time to time and make us chase them around for the fun of it. Maybe it would be justifying to win a dairy show or have a grateful animal, or pleasant to wear boots, so that our feet stay dry or don't hurt so much.
But out in the pasture, on the most glorious of mornings every morning all summer long, in a golden dreamscape of idyllic and pastoral and actual, with the familiar and partially pleasant and partially acrid scent of cows mixing with the freshness of the morning in the air, the call of "Hey Boss" joining with the gentle voices of contented cattle and the cheerful songs of the birds, three different languages saying all there is to say, and the promise that a bowl of Cheerios, covered in honey, and soaked with divinely fresh milk awaits you back in the kitchen, on those mornings it seems that fate hasn't been too bad. And then, as the sun's rays begin to strengthen and the only dew that remains from a full moon and a still night soaks into your running shoes and your toes become wrinkly and wet, it seems that God is in his heavens and there is no place you could rather be.
For Dad, Happy Birthday
The sun rises at four thirty and at five o'clock Dad comes into your bedroom and whispers your name. "Hey," he says softly, "it's time to get the cows." Why whisper at all if the purpose of coming into the room is to arouse you from slumber? Ignoring the whisper is pointless, since it is purposeful. There exists a moment of disgruntled mood, on account of the deceit of the whisper, but then, the bright sunlight has already illuminated the room and the birds in the birch tree outside the open window cheer you awake. You climb out of bed wearing your farmer uniform of gym shorts and a t-shirt and pull on old running shoes and head out to the fields.
The greatest dog in the world tags along as you and Dad walk through the barnyard. Golden gravel crunching beneath your sneaker feet gives way to silky glossy shin high grasses of the pasture. They are soaking wet with dew and the entire landscape of fields, as far as you can see, are glittering like treasure.
"Hey Boss!" we call, which means "Hey Cows, Time to get up, no more dreaming for you! Time to get busy being a cow!" All across the pasture black and white cows begin to lunge to their feet, first their hind legs, then their fronts rise, leaving warm, dry patches of flattened grass in the wet sea of legumes. Some, the very old friends, are reluctant and so we walk from cow to cow, patting them on the rumps, feeling their warm sides and sometimes, when they have moved on, crouching down into their warm beds, tucking our big t-shirts over our cool wet knees, and staring the wet grass in the eyes.
But no more dreaming! Back to the task of being a farmer! Each August, we take our cows out of the field and to the fair. In June and July, we start chasing our cows around their pens, convincing them to follow along behind us on the halter and not bolt away or simply stop moving. The preparation is filthy business, involving fickle Holsteins and ancient technology (our clippers, purchased by our grandfather in 1968, and terrify cows on account of the noise, cover both the cow and the operator in diesel fuel--which we use to condition the blades--and routinely electrocute us all whenever hands or ears happen to glance the open wires) and somewhat tedious, because we know that for all our well intentioned preparation our cattle will not fare particularly well when they enter the ring.
It is hard, really, to link your personal value to a cow's performance in a competition against other cows.
Whenever the cows would escape, before we made moves to corral them back to their yards, Dad would gather us around and remind us, "you can't outrun a cow, you've got to outsmart it." And then as a side note, "and if you can't outsmart a cow, what good are you anyway?"
While in the ring, as my cow loses again, I remind myself that it's not me, it's the cow. She is the one who should be embarrassed. But considering the manner in which she continues to loll her head in an unruly fashion and stomp on my toes, it is clear that she has lost on purpose, to spite me for what she deems to be injustices doled to her.
I consider it from the point of view of the cow and really the show doesn't seem so bad. Bathed every day, brushed every day, half a week of luxurious appointment in an airy barn filled with all kinds of other cows and fresh straw; ah, but there's no reasoning with a cow.
I consider it from my point of view. I have to bathe a cow every day, brush a cow every day, and refresh the straw for a cow every day. However, I'm excited every year to spend time with friends in the dairy barn, eating Pizza On Earth and firemen's donuts, hearing about kids who were thrown in the stock tank and other kids who had their pictures taken with the lion cubs in Woody's Menagerie across the lane. Everyone in Boone County at the fair with a cow, dressed in white pants and white shirts (channeling the milk men of yesteryear and because white represents the cleanliness of the dairy industry, except when it becomes dirty and then it is just dirty) walking backwards around a room filled with a saw dust floor.
I weigh the tiresome and the delightful and again, things don't seem so bad for the cow.
So I tell myself "why do I care if this cow loses? I'm not the loser, she is!" And frankly, as she crushes my feet and covers me in twice digested bits of hay, I'm not that worried about crushing her self esteem.
But maybe there is a little bit of sting in the way the judge concludes his commentary with "this animal probably would have placed better had she been washed more thoroughly before entering the ring." I consider telling him, "yes, maybe, but she objected so strongly to haircuts and she splashes water on me every time I try to clean her, so..." The adage about outsmarting the cow rings in my ear, though, and so I keep quiet and exit the ring to join my friends and their attractive cattle in the hot dry August sunlight.
On principle, I want to congratulate their cows instead of them, but I think better of it for several reasons.
First, I don't want to deflate my own cow's confidence. Entering into a passive battle of wits and wills with a Holstein doesn't interest me. And really, I do love that dumb bovine. That is why I take her to the fair, year after year despite her cantankerous nature and dismal show results, because I enjoy spending time with her, (and I suspect she'll be disappointed if she doesn't go). Second, the victorious cattle are already busy eating their blue ribbons. They probably wouldn't even give me the dignity of recognition if I spoke to them. And third, I know that incredible amounts of time, skill, love, and dirty work have gone into their victories. There is a reason that my friends have won again: thoroughly better showmanship (and partially better cattle and equipment--my friends, after all, wear stylish work boots).
We are tennis shoe farmers, and maybe that is our fate: that we should have cows with real personalities who escape from their pens from time to time and make us chase them around for the fun of it. Maybe it would be justifying to win a dairy show or have a grateful animal, or pleasant to wear boots, so that our feet stay dry or don't hurt so much.
But out in the pasture, on the most glorious of mornings every morning all summer long, in a golden dreamscape of idyllic and pastoral and actual, with the familiar and partially pleasant and partially acrid scent of cows mixing with the freshness of the morning in the air, the call of "Hey Boss" joining with the gentle voices of contented cattle and the cheerful songs of the birds, three different languages saying all there is to say, and the promise that a bowl of Cheerios, covered in honey, and soaked with divinely fresh milk awaits you back in the kitchen, on those mornings it seems that fate hasn't been too bad. And then, as the sun's rays begin to strengthen and the only dew that remains from a full moon and a still night soaks into your running shoes and your toes become wrinkly and wet, it seems that God is in his heavens and there is no place you could rather be.
For Dad, Happy Birthday
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