Monthly Archives: March 2010

Woman’s best friend

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Throughout this week, I’ve been sharing stories about my memories growing up on a southwest Minnesota farm as a way to honor National Agriculture Week. I did the same during the week-long celebration in 2009, and believe it or not, I feel I’m running out of things to write about.

After living on the farm for 20-plus years, you’d think I’d have all kinds of stories, but to me, so many of them are the ordinary and mundane – like picking rock, walking beans, digging potatoes and baling hay. They were the jobs that had to be done every year.

So today, I’m going to write about my dog. Few times in my life has there not been a dog in it. We had several different farm dogs over the years – the first one I remember was a big collie, while the rest – with the exception of a Blue Heeler – were mixed breed, family pets.

These days, the dog in my life is Molly.

Six years ago this spring I met Molly. She was a giveaway puppy from a family at Steen, and was just what I needed as I adapted to my new surroundings … a new job at the Daily Globe and a new place to live (an old, two-story, four-bedroom farmhouse south of Worthington.)

Molly loved farm life so much that when I bought my house in town four years ago, I couldn’t bear to take her away from her daily routine of chasing bunnies through the grove, barking at birds and being the protector of the farmhouse.

She has lived with my parents ever since, but I spend time with her every chance I get.

I took Molly to the veterinarian this afternoon, during what has been a much-needed, four-day break from work.

Anyway, I drove out to the farm to pick her up after lunch. Molly loves car rides, but little did she know I wasn’t taking her to bunny paradise down at Bella Park – our usual destination.

I’m pretty sure she knew something was up when I turned north instead of south off the county road where my parents live. As I drove into town, she poked her head between the bucket seats to watch the scenery out the front window. Then she turned her nose and blew warm air right into my ear. I won’t complain though, at least she didn’t bark in my ear!

I never know what to expect when I take Molly to the veterinarian. One time I had to drag her out of the car on the leash and that was miserable. Today, however, she was ready to leap out as I opened the back door, and I had to hold her back to get a leash attached to her collar. I can only imagine what disastrous situation might occur if she was allowed to run free in town!

Though getting her through the double doors involved a bit of pushing and a bit of pulling, once she was inside, she was back to her typical, curious Molly. I think the smells confused her, the chirping bird annoyed her (any chirping bird that near to Molly usually ends up being a dead bird – fortunately, this one was in a bird cage), and the barking dog in an exam room mystified her.

All in all, Molly was a real good girl. She was weighed (she’s now up to 42 pounds – she gained a pound since last year), had her temperature taken and received her rabies shot and distemper/parvo shot. Best of all, she made it through everything – even the veterinarian’s exam – without so much as a whimper.

Her treat for being such a good girl was supposed to be a trip to the bunny park, but it was too cold today. Instead, she had to settle for a couple of her favorite Marro bone treats and a little game of fetch with her favorite toy.

I’m hoping our afternoon together made up for the neglect she’s apparently been feeling lately. I really hadn’t appreciated the call from Mom the other day, telling me that Molly had ripped the liner out of the boots I had left in the garage after my weekend farm visit.

Oh, I’ll still take her to the bunny park one of these days when it warms up again … she knows I won’t trick her into going to the vet clinic twice in a row.

When Barbie meets the barnyard

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In honor of National Agriculture Week, I will be sharing my own “memories of a former kid” growing up on a rural Nobles County family farm. Check back each day this week for some of my most memorable experiences of farm life.

Growing up with three brothers, I usually had to barter if I wanted one of them to play Barbie with me. Most of the time it was the younger brother who joined in … certainly it wasn’t the oldest of the boys. He would have been a teenager when I was into the Barbie, Ken, dollhouse and Barbie Jeep stage.

Anyway, the willing brother would always have the Ken doll, and I’d always have to promise to play farm with their toy tractors and plastic animals.

I’ll admit that I loved playing farm … as long as I could have all the little, plastic goats in my farm yard, along with a couple Holstein calves and the chickens. I don’t know that the boys could say the same about having to endure playing house with Barbie, but oh well, we Buntjer kids learned the art of compromise early on in life!

Some of my favorite memories of building sprawling cattle ranches on the basement floor were when Jason and I could convince Randy to join in. Randy always had one condition … he was the auctioneer of Buntjer Auction Barn, and he’d get to call out prices as Jason and I would bid for our pick of the plastic animals.

I think we all kind of realized, even way back then, that Randy was practicing for his life-long dream. And oh, did Jason and I like to listen to him rattle off those numbers.

It may sound rather silly to some – but for us, going to the sale barn on a Friday night was better than going to the high school football game or taking in a movie.

We’d get to listen to Johnny Vander Grift’s rhythmic auction chant, watch as animals were paraded through the ring and hear the "yep" and "yah" as bids were taken from the crowd. Then, when we got bored, we went outside and Randy would practice his auction call.

On the drive home, if we were lucky, LeRoy Van Dyke came on the airwaves crooning the Auctioneer Song and we’d all sing along …

"There was a boy in Arkansas who wouldn’t listen to his ma

When she told him that he should go to school

He’d sneak away in the afternoon, take a little walk and pretty soon

You’d find him at the local auction barn

Well he’d stand and listen carefully then pretty soon he began to see

How the auctioneer could talk so rapidly

He said, "Oh my it’s do or die I’ve got to learn that auction cry

Gotta make my mark and be an auctioneer…."

And to think, for Randy it all started with a pretend farm in the basement of our family’s rural Worthington home.

One of these days, we’ll have to dig out those building blocks and plastic farm animals for the next generation. I’m pretty sure the little tikes would think it pretty cool to have a resident auctioneer join them for an afternoon of play at the Buntjer Auction Barn.

When Barbie meets the barnyard

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In honor of National Agriculture Week, I will be sharing my own “memories of a former kid” growing up on a rural Nobles County family farm. Check back each day this week for some of my most memorable experiences of farm life.

Growing up with three brothers, I usually had to barter if I wanted one of them to play Barbie with me. Most of the time it was the younger brother who joined me … certainly it wasn’t the oldest of the boys. He would have been a teenager when I was into Barbie, Ken, the dollhouse and Barbie Jeep stage.

Anyway, the willing brother would always have the Ken doll, and I’d always have to promise to play farm with their toy tractors and plastic animals.

I’ll admit that I didn’t mind playing farm … as long as I could have all the little, plastic goats in my farm yard, along with a couple Holstein calves and the chickens. I don’t know that the boys could say the same about having to endure playing house with Barbie, but oh well, we Buntjer kids learned the art of compromise somewhere along the way!

Some of my favorite memories of building sprawling cattle ranches on the basement floor were when Jason and I could convince Randy to join in. Randy always had one condition … he was the auctioneer of Buntjer Auction Barn, and he’d get to call out prices as Jason and I would bid for our pick of the offerings.

I think we all kind of realized, even way back then, that Randy was practicing for what would be his life-long dream.

 

T-Shirt voting results

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I just wanted to say a big "Thank you" to everyone who voted for the Wabasso FFA T-shirt design after seeing my blog post of several days ago.

I just learned this morning that the Wabasso FFA T-shirt was among the top three vote-getters. Because of that, the Wabasso FFA Chapter will receive 50 percent of the profits from the sale of the T-shirt! It will be featured on the National FFA Web site and available for purchase hopefully in the near future.

Way to go, Wabasso FFA!

 

It’s a girl … no, it’s a boy

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In honor of National Agriculture Week, I will be sharing my own “memories of a former kid” growing up on a rural Nobles County family farm. Check back each day this week for some of my most memorable experiences of farm life.

The barn on the Buntjer family farm has a pair of what I like to call birthing suites. They aren’t fancy by any means … simply private rooms with access to electricity.

The electricity was important back when I was raising dairy goats. Kidding season usually started in early March and continued through the end of May.

I loved kidding season. Most of the time, the mamas had their babies under the dark of night, and I’d trudge out to the barn in the morning before school to find a wobbly-kneed kid with tousled hair, still damp from the placenta and the constant licks offered by mama.

My voice rose an octave or two as I joyously celebrated the new arrival, and then it was time to work. I’d pick up the kid – or kids – and carry them to the private quarters, with mama following close behind and bleating her displeasure that I disturbed her precious little babes.

I’d hook up the heat lamp to get some extra warmth in the room, make sure the kids were getting their healthy dose of colostrum from mama, and then give mama a special "treat" mix of molasses pellets, oats and cracked corn for the extra energy she undoubtedly needed after labor.

As mama was distracted by her meal, I’d check the kids over to make sure their ears were dry and their nose was clear. And then I checked for the really important stuff … I mean, you can’t really give a kid a name until you know if it’s a boy or a girl, right?

In the early years of goat raising, I bestowed upon them names that came to mind as I watched them learn to stand on their wobbly legs.

One year, I think I used up all of the character names on Little House on the Prairie … there was William and Charles for a set of twin boys, and for the triplet girls, we had Nellie, Sally and Tessa (I don’t know where Tessa came from … I just liked the name!)

When I converted my herd to purebred, registered Saanens, the process grew more difficult. I had to use one letter each year … and all the offspring had to have names starting with that letter. It hampered my creativity … or forced me to be more creative, I’m not sure which.

I’m sure I can’t remember all of the names attached to my goats over the years, but I do remember some of the stress-filled moments, and one that is still a bit embarrassing.

I do believe I was the only high school student to ever call in my own absence from school one day. My excuse: Jenny was having a difficult labor, Mom was working at Campbell’s Soup, Dad was working at IBP and no one else could help.

I’m pretty sure the school secretary thought it was the stupidest excuse she’d ever heard, but I’m sure glad I stayed home. I ended up having to assist in the delivery when the front feet failed to come out with the head. (You’re just learning all sorts of new things about your farm reporter now, aren’t you!) When it was all over, both mama and her big baby boy turned out just fine.

Now, for the embarrassing tale … my goat Misty was known for her multiple births. For three years straight, she delivered triplets. A trio of boys, followed by a trio of girls, followed by another trio of girls.

Or was that girls, followed by boys, and another set of boys?

Misty’s very first delivery of triplets had me so excited, I quickly looked at the three and ran all the way up to the house to tell my folks the good news (it must have been on a weekend).

"Three girls!" I exclaimed, already going through names in my head for three girl names that sounded similar.

I had them all picked out by the time Dad and I walked back out to check on the new babies. I don’t know why, but Dad thought he better check the kids over too … and it’s a good thing he did. My trio of baby girls had suddenly become a trio of baby boys.

Gee, was I disappointed!