Cute, Fuzzy, and Delicious

I realize now in my older years that I was likely one of the last generations to grow up on a farm. The lessons in that place were many and varied. For instance, don't gather eggs if you are afraid of snake bites. We could call that an occupational hazard. Or, if there is an old tractor out in the pasture that has been there for years DO NOT spray paint questionable cuss words on it as you never know when granny might sell it; possibly even before the paint is dry. That old thing had set out there rusting for years, what are the odds my cousins and I would get caught acting like jack asses the day of the sale? If I am not mistaken that was the last time I got whipped. I cannot remember if that was before or after the time, we filled up the cellar with water and went swimming.

Grandma was in the calf business, which generally includes everything from birthing them, nursing them back to health, or fattening them up for butchering. For some reason if you ever have to pull a calf it will always be minus-zero or hotter than blue blazes. Raising cattle is a harsh reality for folks who have never given much thought to how beef ends up on Styrofoam containers under clear wrap at their local grocery store. If you ask me every young person should have to be taught that lesson, it will make them appreciate their food more. As I was about to be introduced to grandma's business at age ten her first piece of advice to me was "whatever you do, don't name them." This request of hers, of course, fell on deaf ears. I had gotten my feet wet nursing a sickly Hereford steer back to health I quickly named him Herby. Why I named him that I couldn't begin to tell you. But granny was right, after you name them, you quickly get attached to them. But to be fair, he was probably more attached to me than I was to him. He knew exactly what time my school bus pulled up to the farm, and he would meet me at the gate every day. It was about a quarter of a mile from the gate to the house and I would ride him like and old pony every bit of the way.

Herby was a lot more like a dog than he was a cow. It's one of life's little mysteries why God gives us domain over all critters great and small and then blesses each one of them with a different personality. So, when it comes time to off one like a Godfather movie you feel like you are killing a family member. I couldn't even feed him in the lot with the rest of the calves; he was so spoiled he had to be corralled by himself before he would eat. On top of that he was so picky he wouldn't eat the corn out of the feed; he insisted on spitting that back out. And when it came time for him to go back into the pasture, I had to pump his tail like a rusty old water pump handle to get him to move.

One day when I got off the school bus Herby had disappeared. I didn't even bother asking where he had gone because a part of me already knew. I have no doubt I ate the KC strips off that old boy, and I'm sure they were delicious; but to grandma's credit she never said a word. God bless that old girl, not only was she realistic, but she was also empathetic. I was no worse for the wear as a young man after that life lesson, but I'll admit it wasn't an easy one to swallow. To granny's credit she realized that this experience would help mold me into the man I would become. Just remember folks, in the barn or in life the cow will never kick the milk bucket over two pulls in, they usually wait until it's 3/4 full.