Category Archives: Farm Stories

Eye of the Tiger

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This story is to pay tribute to the animal on the farm that doesn’t exactly make the money, make the city kids swarm with anticipation to pet, or command the most respect from the CEO (the farmer). This small character served a purpose that we always took for granted, but was as equally important in function, as it was in companionship….The Farm Cat.

Throughout the years, there were many…but only a few made the grade.  When I say made the grade,  I’m not talking about city, lap sitting, purring, get your meal out of a grocery store kitty tin, advertised by a white, fluffy hair cat that eats out of a champagne glass.   I’m talking farm cats!  Tough. Mean. Hunters with purpose.  Darwinian, survival of the fittest!  Tom and Jerry on steroids type of stuff.

Farm life is interesting. In all aspects. There is a certain part of it that goes on at night, after you go to bed. Things happen.  Crazy things.  I can’ t exactly explain…because, well – I was in bed. During the summer nights and without the luxury of air conditioning, the windows were always wide open.  My sister and I shared a room when we were younger.  We would be laying there, trying to go to sleep when we would hear things. Creepy things. Weird yowling. Hissing. Injury screams – horrendous animal fighting.

As little kids,  we would make any excuse in the world to NOT go to bed: I have to go to the bathroom, I need a drink, I’m not tired...or… DAD!!!! Something! SCREAMING! FIGHTING to its DEATH!  OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!!!!

Dad would rush in our bedroom, in complete irritation and explain to us not to worry and that it was just the wild tom cats fighting with each other….or if it’s super high-pitched screams with low gurgling undertones, it’s just the raccoons fighting…or maybe a combination of the coons fighting with the cats.  GO TO BED!!! Dad would slam the light switch off, close the door with vengeance, and we would be left in dark nothingness –  listening.

I’m not sure what goes on in farm cat land after dark, but if I had to assume…these fights were based on the reasons that spark most wars in the world – territory, food and girl cats.

There would be an extended chorus of low-pitched yowling, which I would assume is the equivalent of cat, smack talk. This would go on for a while, and then it was like someone hit a boxing bell and the fight was ON!  Contact.  I mean, full-on cat fight contact. Cats yelling and screaming, growling, cat punches, claw swats, tail pulling…the fight for life. Mind you, I have never actually seen one of these wild, night fights, but believe me – the sound of tail pulling is vicious!

There are a few champions that come to mind when I think about the tough ol’ farm cats…but there is really only one that held the title. We had a cat on the farm that outlasted and out-hunted most. He was a real fighter – a boxer, a real contender.  That cat deserved a name threaded with courage, gut and gristle. But, as young as we were – we settled for the obvious.  It was yellow and it was a cat, so that’s what we named it – Yellow Cat.

All of us kids knew that Yellow Cat was wild.  He always watched us from a distance, but never came too close.  There finally came a time when he came close enough to steal a pet on the head and it was over.  The barrier had been crossed, and from that day on, he never left our side.  You could not be outside without Yellow Cat trying to get petted, or curl around your leg purring.  I swear there was something wrong with that cat’s purring mechanism – it was like there was a megaphone connected to it.  As soon as that cat saw you fifteen feet away, you could hear it purr in the distance.

Okay, I know I just described the personality of the cat that eats out of the champagne glass, but make no mistake. Yellow Cat had a dark side and more than nine lives. He was a fighting champ! But being a champ, you have to roll with the punches. Between the raccoons, possums, juiced up farm rats (which were by the way, the size of most lap dogs), skunks, and other wild, tom cats – Yellow Cat took some beatings.

Most mornings, that cat would be limping, bleeding, eyes half-swollen shut, and usually with a bit of pus weeping out of some facial injury.  Yellow Cat would always be in a cheerful disposition, looking for a pet, sounded off by his megaphone purring.  I’m not sure if there were any cats in Night of the Living Dead, but that is close to what this cat looked like after fight nights.  He was hard to look at some mornings, it was all you could do to just pet the thing with one finger, trying not to offend any injury.

Yellow Cat was around for years and was always in the background watching us kids no matter what we were up to on the farm.  Whenever we start to reminisce about the old times, and personalities from the farm – Yellow Cat is always part of the conversation.

We’ll always remember Yellow Cat like Rocky – fighting for farm cats everywhere, with ‘Eye of the Tiger’ playing in the background – protecting his territory and ultimately kicking some serious CAT BUTT!

*Just a side note – Mom and Dad gave me a camera when I was eight. Like all eight year-olds with their own camera, I took a bunch of pictures that were what Mom liked to refer to as a ‘waste of film’. This picture being one of them. In the story when I talk about Dad running into our room after we would yell for him to come save us – one of those nights I took a snap shot right as he walked in. Notice the very un-thrilled, over-irritated look on his face. Do you see the light switch? Becky and I had some rainbow thing with dangle pieces on it. Dad would always get tangled in the mess trying to slam the light switch off – we would giggle about that for at least fifteen more minutes after being told to go to bed.. well, until the cat fights started.

The Cattle Bandits

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Our farm had been in the family for a few generations.   In the early 1900′s, before the time of refrigeration, there was a small building on the farm that housed the food that needed to be kept cool – the milk house.  Fast forward 80 years into the future, and it was still standing strong to see my generation.  Unfortunately, in our time, it was mostly a useless building. Well, maybe to some – but for a few farm kids, it was the perfect CLUBHOUSE!

Us kids had that old milk house perfectly decked out. There was an old, black and white TV, rotting our basement that we lugged out to the clubhouse. Clearly, you can’t have a totally cool clubhouse without a bit of technology. This TV probably weighed about a 100 pounds, complete with a hanger for an antenna and two knobs that you could dial in the only four stations that were available in the world of rural nothingness. I think there was only one station that actually came in, mostly fuzzy.

Do you remember when your parents specifically told you NOT to do something?

Well, I remember Mom telling us NOT to watch soap operas on television. So… of course, that is exactly what we did behind closed, clubhouse doors.  The words ‘young and restless’ described us exactly, so I guess there is no surprise why that was our favorite soap.

We eventually grew out of the clubhouse, but The Young and the Restless was always a part of summer vacation. For one hour a day, my sister and I were basically unavailable.  Dad knew it, and rolled his eyes because of it, but as long as the chores were done – he didn’t complain too much. . . except for this one time.

The credits were rolling at the end of another unmissable episode of ‘who was having an affair with who’, when Dad and my brother walked into the house, after running some errands.   Dad blankly asked me, “Where are the 4-H cattle?”  He was referring to our three show steers.  Awaking from my soap opera daze, wondering what would happen on tomorrow’s episode, I half-wittedly answered, “They’re tied to the bunk, I just watered them.”  Dad looked at my brother, like I was suffering from a stint of amnesia.

We all walked out to the small bunk where I left three steers, happily eating. It was a scene from a ghost town.  All of them – GONE!  There was not immediate panic. Cattle get loose – not really a big deal. We just needed to take a few minutes to look around.  They probably wandered down to the lot to be with the rest of the cattle, or maybe for a bite to eat in the pasture – the grass is like green-gold to them. After about thirty minutes of searching on the farmstead… panic started to set in.  Dad’s otherwise, laid back disposition was beginning  to diminish.

The questions started to elevate in tone, and fired off in rapid, machine gun format. “When did you tie them UP? How long were you in THE HOUSE?  Did you tie THEM UP GOOD!” Cattle DON”T JUST DISAPPEAR! DID YOU HEAR ANYTHING!”

I didn’t have a chance to respond to any of the questions before the next one was asked, but the last one caught my attention.  Did I hear anything???  ”Dad! Hear WHAT!?! – the cattle walk away???”   The frustration was evident, as was Dad’s dwindling patience.

When emotion-fueled panic takes over logic – clearly, there is nothing left but  over-thought, paranoid, conspiracy theories.

Dad was short, “Yes! Did you hear anything?  Did anyone pull into the driveway?”  I instantly knew where Dad was going.  Hey, it happened in the Ol’ West – it could happen to us…CATTLE BANDITS!

“Three steers just don’t disappear – DON’T tell me a few thousand dollars just WALKED OFF THIS FARM!” Dad said. “What were you DOING! Did you HEAR a truck pull in the driveway!?!”  I clearly explained that I was only the house for an hour watching, The Young and the Restless. Dad instantly  interrupted me, and we’ll leave out  his comments after my explanation of where I was. Dad went on about the cattle bandits, and how I could possibly miss a truck/trailer taking the cattle –  when something caught my eye.

It was my saving grace. In the distance, a little pile of brown glistened in a sea of green grass, in the form of a clue – a fresh pile of POOP!

We were on to something. Unfortunately, the pile was a little too close to the road.  We walked a little further, and looked down the road, hoping that we were wrong. There, in the further distance…another pile of poop – ON THE ROAD!   In the world of farmer, there is no worse feeling than the animals out on the road.  We followed the steaming, piles of clues for about a half-mile down the road, when suddenly the trail went dry.  Thanks to an early morning rain, we picked up three sets of hoof prints in the muddy ditch,  leading into an open field. The tracks made some circles and then just ended.  No poop. No leads.  The trail was cold.

After a long hike, standing in the middle of the field with nothing left to follow, the frustration was taking its toll , especially on Dad. We walked that entire field.  They were gone.  ”HOW IS THERE NO TRAIL!  THIS field is MUD!” Dad yelled, pacing back and forth. We stood out there for another 45 minutes, just hunting for another clue.  ”Did Aliens just ZAP them away!” Dad yelled, sarcastically.

It was hopeless. The field was surrounded by fence and dense forest preserve.  If they did get passed the fence and got into the woods, they were as good as gone.  After Dad’s sarcastic alien comment, we knew the hunt was over.  As soon as we started to walk out of the field, we heard a slight rustling noise. There was something in the thick brush.

There they were – all laying down, completely camouflage, behind a broken part of the fence… totally chillin’  - chewin’ their cuds, taking in the great show. Those steers were watching us the whole time – yelling, pulling our hair out, in the maddening search for a single, fresh poop clue!

So the great steer hunt had come to an end. We knew that a rain shower had come in earlier that morning, which had allowed us to pick up muddy, hoof prints.  The short rain shower came in after I had tied them to the bunk. The rope halters shrunk when they got wet, causing the knots to slip – ultimately leading to the great escape. Case closed.

The moral of this story is clear – don’t rule out the obvious… because you never know when a cattle bandit might be lurking!

Tales of Tails

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There was a question that was asked  in our younger years that generated quite a bit of imagination.  What are you going to be when you grow up?  This question  had several answers at different stages in life.  If you were to ask my sister and I what we wanted to do between the ages of eight to ten,  the answer was simple… beauticians.

We were farmer’s daughters – not princesses.  We were raised to be tough and practical, and work meant that you had to get some poop on your boots every once in a while. Despite the poop on our boots, my sister and I loved to revel in the idea of beauty and glamor… our art was an epiphany, in the form of beef cattle.

Every summer we had 4-H projects that were destined to the county fair. As beef farmers, those projects of course included…the show steers. The early summer started with the separation process.  So there we were. Dad, us kids, all in our boots, standing at the fence, looking at a couple hundred head of cattle, trying to pick out the ‘best’. A show steer had characteristics that stood out from the rest:  Stance. Posture. Presence. Leaness -but not too much. Thickness – but not too much. Brisket. Rump. Straight back. Tall, but not too short. Short, but not too tall. In a nutshell, you knew a champion when you saw one. My sister and I knew EXACTLY what characteristics made a great steer. However,  in our opinion, there were was one thing that made a show steer a show a steer. In our terms, it was simple…..it was the tail.

In those cattle lots of yester-year, there roamed a few champion steers and they were passed up.  Why?  The qualifications were simple –  No tail ? No can do! I distinctly remember, sitting at the fence as Dad would point out a beautiful animal, practically Zeus-like in the world of steers.  My sister and I would watch, and patiently wait until the Zeus steer would take a turn, exposing a few pathetic hairs at the end of a nub for a tail. Becky and I would look at each other and in a moment – have the same, immediate opinion.  ”DAD! You can’t be serious. His tail is like…non-existant.  Next!”

During the summers, all we did was primp steers.  It was like having a giant Barbie, with a lot more hair – except well, you didn’t have to shampoo poop out of Barbie’s hair. Regardless, we took it seriously. The only thing we really had to fight with Dad about was…supplies.  Clearly, serious steer hair required serious products: hoof gloss, hoof mist, steer hair spray (extra firm hold and light hold) , steer shampoo etc.  Of course there were various steer combs and brushes – all completely necessary.  And the ‘Piece De Resistance’ – the absolute tool of all steer beauty;  A high- powered, super awesome, steer blow dryer, which looked like a mini air-compressor with a long hose, capable of any extreme, steer hair ‘blow-out’.  We liked to minimize the price of this necessary item as being just slightly over $100, but in actuality, was probably closer to $200.   We could negotiate most of the ‘tools of our trade’ with Dad…but not that one.  I don’t want to repeat the answer Dad gave us, after we asked for a steer blow dryer, that cost more than a few weeks worth of groceries.

Sometimes you have to think outside the box, so that is what we did…and it led us right to Dad’s machine shed.  It was sitting there in a dark corner, suddenly illuminated by the ‘idea light bulb’ over our heads.  THE SHOP VAC!!!  The shop vac was a heavy-duty vacuum, but it had a magical switch – reverse!  It blew air!  It wasn’t as high-powered as the dryer that we wanted, but it was functional.  The name of the game in the world of steer hair is BODY, and we were on a quest for EXACTLY that!

The steer tail is a delicate, treasured feat that requires various techniques to maintain full, luscious, fly swatting body!  We wanted our steer tails to look like they just walked out of a Beverly Hills salon.  This was a far cry from the farm – but we tried.  Our method was the bucket technique.  It sounds basic, but we swore on it.  It was a carefully mixed brew of beauty, in a bucket that we would hold on the steer’s tail for sometimes, up to an hour.  It took some discipline, holding a bucket up to the steer’s back side for that long, but after all -  beauty is pain.

The time seemed to fly during those summer days of steer beauty, listening to the boom box and working on our tans.  The drudgery over cattle beauty faded as we got older. Our teenage priorities became more important in our older, steer showing days.  Regardless, there was one thing that was never skimped on, or set aside…we would NOT be caught DEAD, walking into a show ring with a tail that didn’t look like a thousand man hours had gone into it!

Despite the years of running down the trail of tails and tears,  there is nothing that could compare to spending the summers at the exotic,  studio and spa of  ’Kristen and Becky’s House of Steer Beauty’!

This was the early 90's. Becky is using the 'bucket technique'. You just can't make this stuff up.

The Lead Steer

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Like every family, we had a few inside jokes.  The term, ‘The Lead Steer’, was one of them.  We grew up on farm with a few hundred head of beef cattle which were, at most times, not much entertainment.  Don’t get me wrong, there were incidents when the cattle were the object of several great stories – but for the most part…the cattle were quiet, predictable and mostly not a problem.  Back in 1980 something, we didn’t have the technology that we have these days.  Cable television was something that was not possible without a giant, somewhat space-like,  satellite dish, towering in your yard. This was a luxury that was reserved for the rich and urban.  We were neither.  This was of course, a complete detriment in our youth, because MTV was as important to young people back then, as cell phones and texting are today.

There would be those ‘Dog Days of Summer’, when there was absolutely nothing to do, but revel in the heat.   Being in a youth induced coma, without MTV, wanting for nothing more than an ounce of entertainment – I remember wandering out to the cattle lots. Knowing that there was nothing to do but stare at the cattle, and knowing that the cattle had nothing to do, but stare back at us – we would catch a seat in one of the feed bunks and have nothing better to do but watch each other, hoping that something exciting might happen. We were disappointed most of the time.

Between the cattle and us kids, it would take about fifteen minutes of concentrated stares,  and eventually – the herd would continue with the rituals.  Herd rituals are basic  - what one does, the rest follow.  If one decided to go eat – the rest ate.  If one wandered to one end of the lot – the rest wandered to the end of the lot. If one pee’d – well, we always kind of got a kick out of how many steers would be pee’ing at the same time.

If you watched the herd long enough, you could usually pick out the one that did everything first – ‘The Lead Steer’.

There were two types.   There was the ‘heroic’ lead steer – the first to detect danger and lead the rest of the herd to a safe distance. And then there was the ‘crazy’ lead steer – the one that would lead an entire herd off a cliff to their death, if given the chance.

The stories of the ‘crazy’ lead steer are endless and upcoming, but because I have to keep the blog entries to less than a novel, I’ll stick with the point of the story.

Our brother was reading this blog, authored by his older sisters and mention to me specifically, “Why are you going by the moniker…’The Lead Steer’. I know that we understand what ‘The Lead Steer’ means – but the readers?? They won’t get it.”

So here is the story of ‘The Lead Steer’. Not that I am a lead steer, but I chose the moniker because it has significance that only a farmer could understand and reference.

You know all those family vacations of destinations that are completely foreign to your regular day to day life?  The places that you just can’t wait to get to?  The ones that you can’t wait to say you visited? –  a cafe’ in Paris, a canal in Venice, perhaps a safari in Africa.

Well , keep in mind  that we were farmers from midwest, America.

Let me just take you to a fun filled, family vacation to FABULOUS,  Las Vegas, Nevada.

Crowded casinos, filled with hords of tourists that would make any family with a farm background, only used to large populations of corn and cattle – completely FREAK OUT. There was one thing that we were not used to handling – herds of people!

Our family unit was instantly lost – somewhat in a panic and completely uncomfortable, screaming at each other…”WhErE ArE wE gOiNg!?! WhAt ArE We DoInG!?!”

In the midst of the land of confusion – to this day, I’m not sure who screamed it, but there was a calm during the storm, and it was summed up in these few words….

“WILL SOMEONE BE THE LEAD STEER!”

In the mob of people, unable to hear basic conversation  - we instantly knew what that statement meant. We got into formation. One of us lead – and the rest followed in single file, leading us out of the mess of people.

To this day….kind of a  joke.

Heroic or crazy , despite the adventure or ending……when desperate times call for desperate measures….follow the lead steer!

The Great Raccoon Hunt

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If there was any blanket rule that Dad stressed on our farm, it was this –  Every animal has its purpose.  We all had our functions on the farm, the animals were no exception.  The dog’s purpose was to bark when something was going on  - basically serving as the fire bell when the cattle got out. The cats….they needed to keep the rodents down in the sheds and the barn.  They had to earn their keep, and if they were not good hunters — well, I’ll just leave it at that. Dad kept the necessary animals to a minimum. It was the dog, the cats…and a couple hundred head of cattle.  No exceptions.

Well, there was one exception.

Dad used to tell us stories about his youth – which of course, like most stories you might tell your kids – backfired.  Dad told us that when he was young, the neighbor kid,  Roger (dairy farmer), had captured a baby raccoon.  Roger kept the raccoon for quite a while, and it turned into quite a pet.  Dad always went on about the raccoon and how cool it was.  After hearing those stories, my brother, sister and I were – on the mission of our lives.  WE WERE GOING TO GET A BABY PET RACCOON!  Dad would warn us  - raccoons are wild. They are not meant to be pets. If you could catch one at just the right age, (baby) you could have it as a pet, but only for a while.  Wild animals are wild – there will come a time when they will turn on you, and you have to let them go before this happens.   These were the rules. Not an issue – we were up to the challenge and the responsibility. However – trying to find a baby raccoon, without a rabid mother that would tear your face off on a whim, was basically a chance of  - one in a million. Dad told us to stay patient – not to go looking, but maybe we might run into one…someday.

That ‘someday’ finally came.

Dad was out in the field, and us kids were on summer vacation, at the wise ages 0f 7 to 9. Our brother, Allen, ran into the house screaming one afternoon. “You guys!  A baby coon! It’s right in the yard!  LET’S GO!”  This was it.  Finally.  We were going to be parents.  Allen kept it at bay, while Becky and I went into panic, trying to figure out how we were going to capture the thing.  We were young, but our wits were still about us – we couldn’t just grab the thing.  We needed to pen it with something.  We looked around the house as fast as we could – and there it was.  The laundry basket.  Perfect.  The clean clothes were immediately dumped on the floor.

Becky and I ran out there in a mad dash, throwing the basket over the best pet we were ever going to have. We did it!  The long, lost pet we always wanted was finally OURS!  We brought the cute little thing into the house,  and basically just starred at it for an hour or so until Dad got in.  He was going to be so excited about our catch!

Dad finally walked into the house and saw us huddled over the laundry basket.  ”DAD! LOOK! We got one – a baby raccoon!”

Dad had one of those looks.  ”Where did you find that thing?” We explained how the cute, precious thing was just casually walking through the yard, in the middle of the day.

“Get that thing out of here! NOW!” he said.  ”Don’t touch anything. WASH your HANDS!”

Not quite the reaction we were expecting.

We caught a baby raccoon all right- one with distemper.  For those of you that don’t know what distemper is  … it’s a  highly infectious disease that young animals catch. They basically get a horrible fever, nerve problems and are on the verge of death. Something that you might not want to handle, put in a laundry basket and bring into your house.  Not contagious between animals and humans – but still.  Not a good catch.  Raccoons are nocturnal. They don’t wander around alone, in the middle of the day – should have been our first clue.  The obliviousness of youth…what can I say???  Lessons from the farm 101 – Don’t pick up odd looking , wild animals wandering through the yard with a  drunken gait, slightly frothing at the mouth.