Monthly Archives: March 2011

A near catastrophe on a country road

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You know how they say curiosity killed the cat? How about those parents who always tell us we must learn from our mistakes?

Well, I’m kind of thinking both rang a little true in my life this afternoon.

It all started with a simple drive out to the middle of Nobles County – to the aptly named Midway Park – to take a picture to accompany a story in Wednesday’s edition of the Daily Globe. The route was easy enough to follow: Drive to Reading, turn left on County Road 14 and go west to just beyond Durfee Avenue. No problem!

I made it there just fine. I pulled off to the side of the road, snapped my photos, and then drove up a little ways to the entrance of the park. It was a bit muddy at the entrance, but I was able to get by – I wanted to see what this park had to offer.

Now, I consider myself a life-long resident of Nobles County, but this was all new territory for me. I can direct most people anywhere south of Worthington, but not so much on the north side of town. So, for obvious reasons, I spent more time looking at the surroundings than I did watching the pavement in front of me.

That wasn’t the problem … and neither was the visit to the park. Despite an uneven surface for a driveway, the park was easy enough to maneuver my car through. I drove back a good distance before I started to get that creepy feeling … the one a single woman gets when she’s out in the middle of a strange, abandoned area with nothing but tall grass, trees and solitude. Yeah, that tends to freak me out a bit.

So, I turned my car around and headed back toward the main road.

Then, looking at the county map strewn across my passenger seat, something caught my eye – a designated Bluebird Prairie not too far away. Certainly, a visit could be justified as “on the way back to the office.”

I turned south on County Road 13, then took a left onto 220th Street, drove up a hill and down a hill and … oh, would you look at that! There’s water on both sides of the road – and ducks, pretty mallards, in fact.

I was so busy enjoying the scenery (and looking for some sign declaring a bluebird prairie) that I wasn’t aware of the quickly changing road conditions before me. By the time I hit the sloppy gravel it was too late – there was no turning back.

Little did I know it would get worse … much worse!

The road suddenly seemed to turn into one of those minimum maintenance varieties – rutted by some adventurous truck driver, no doubt – and I began to panic.

My palms began to sweat, my heart began to pound and the voice inside my head wouldn’t shut up: “Boy, you’re stupid … Please, please don’t get stuck … At least you have a cell phone … How are you going to explain this to the boss? … What’s Dad going to say … and, finally … how the heck is anyone going to find me out here in the middle of nowhere!”

Believe me, the quest for the bluebird prairie was the furthest from my mind at this point. (Although I did discover Pheasant Run 13 and … drum roll please … the Nobles County landfill.)

Of course, by the time I’d reached the landfill, I was ready to get out of the car and kiss the ground – it was a nice gravel surface there. A quarter-of-a-mile before that, however, I was gripping the steering wheel and praying I wouldn’t bottom out, slide into the ditch or just plain get stuck.

When my car finally hit payment, oh how the mud was flying – probably enough to fill a five-gallon bucket, I’m guessing.

By the time I pulled up in front of the Daily Globe, my hands were still a bit shaky, but my heart had stopped its pounding.

Then I stepped out of my car to survey the damage. All I could do was laugh – and make a mental note to go through the car wash after work. (I wouldn’t have needed to make the mental note – it was fairly obvious when I returned to my once pretty Pontiac a few hours later that, yes, I’d experienced quite the afternoon adventure!)

I was still smiling proudly when I stepped into the newsroom – catching the attention of several of my coworkers. I gave them all a word of advice: Yeah, so those country roads out there, they’re not in very good condition … just take my word for it!

Double time in D.C.

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When I signed on to take part in the U-Lead Advisory Academy seven months ago, little did I know I would be traveling to our nation’s capital city, Washington, D.C., twice within the span of 25 days.

In eight days, I will be on a tour of the White House or the Capitol – that is if I haven’t taken the wrong exit off the Metro. I’m kind of worried about the Metro … definitely more worried about my first subway experience than my flight into Reagan National. (Wait a minute, wasn’t that the airport in the news last week because of its snoozing air traffic controller?)

Organizers have assured me I will learn to use the subway system well in Washington, D.C., or get lost trying (note to Mom and Dad: Don’t worry!)

All fears aside, I’m looking forward to the trip. If all goes as planned, I will meet with Sen. Amy Klobuchar, Sen. Al Franken, Rep. Tim Walz, visit the Moroccan Embassy, spend half a day at the U.S. Department of Agriculture, stop at the National Association of Counties and see the World Bank.

Also built into our very busy schedule are agency meetings. I haven’t yet decided if I want to visit Cargill, American Farm Bureau, National Public Radio or National Geographic … I want to see them all.

Ironically, there is absolutely no time allotted to visit any of the wonderful memorials and museums in Washington, D.C.

For me, that will come at the end of April, when I travel with our World War II veterans on Honor Flight Southwest Minnesota’s third flight. Having embarked on this journey with men and women of our Greatest Generation a year ago on the inaugural flight, my excitement is starting to build once again. Oh, what a trip this will be.

I was visiting with a veteran from that first flight the other night, and when he learned I was going again, he said he wanted to go with. Honor Flight is such an amazing experience – one I think any veteran would love to do a second time. It’s even difficult for this writer to put into words just how special, how memorable, the veterans’ visit is to their World War II Memorial.

Five weeks ago I began scheduling interviews with some of the World War II heroes traveling on this next flight. Five weeks ago, I also retrieved the world globe from the upstairs of my house and made a space for it in my home office.

For me, writing the pre-flight features is like a history and geography lesson all rolled into one – and far more interesting than those I ever heard in school. And yet, nearly every veteran I’ve called for an interview has claimed he doesn’t have much of a story to tell.

“Everyone has a story,” I reply. “And I want to hear yours.”

It’s worked for me so far, though these World War II heroes are starting to wonder just what they’ve agreed to when I show up at their door with a notebook, pen, tripod, video camera and camera.

Hopefully you, our readers, have a chance to go online to www.dglobe.com and watch some of the video footage from the last four veteran features. The plan is to take some of the footage and compile it with video from the trip for a memento for our veterans.

Facing my Fears; Screaming for Help

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(As promised in my previous blog, I found the column in which I mentioned Big Red … it was published in June 2008 in the Daily Globe’s Today’s Farm edition. Since Big Red hasn’t made it into the Farm Bleat, I’ve decided this story is worth repeating here – it’s a perfect way to cap off the 2011 version of National Agriculture Week!)

June 2008: I remember well the day I learned to fear the massive four-legged beast.

I was about 10 years old, teaching my goat Princess how to walk with a lead rope in the cattle pasture when, all of a sudden, I heard these thundering footsteps behind me.

Just as I thought my little Princess couldn’t possibly make that much noise I turned around to see Big Red, my oldest brother’s 4-H steer, with his head down and charging right for me and my goat. I dove for cover in the wooden hay manger while screaming for Princess to run — run for her life.

Princess survived. As for me, well, I was scarred for years — 27 years — and still counting.

For you see, I tried to face my fears just a few weeks ago only to find out that yes, I’m still terrified of cattle.

It all began with one of my dad’s three, nearly-market-ready Jersey steers chewing on a piece of blue tarp that mysteriously appeared in the cattle yard one evening.

After we had finished supper, I noticed the tarp was left laying at the top of the hill in the cattle yard, and the three steers were off in a corner, lazily chewing their cud.

Aha, that’s perfect, I thought. I can walk through the cattle yard, pick up the tarp and get out without possibly disturbing their rest.

Yeah, like that would happen.

Just as I bent down to pick up the tarp I realized I had company. I turned around in time to see all three steers within about an arm’s length of me. Then and there I knew I wasn’t going to escape the situation.

My first instinct was to shake the tarp and, in a barely audible voice, yell “Shooo.” Unfortunately, that excited them.

I managed to move about five feet — to a large tree stump I thought could be used for protection. Instead, it became a trap as the three steers moved in.

By this time I was seeing images of my lifeless body pinned against the tree stump. After they rammed me against the wood, I envisioned falling to the crusty ground and being trampled to death.

My body shook — except for my legs. I couldn’t move my legs.

Again I shook the tarp I was clutching in my hands. This time, one of the steers put his head down and kicked up his back legs. He took a step closer, and then another step.

And then … he stuck out his tongue and licked me — from my elbow to my shoulder!

(Did I mention these steers have sort of a pet mentality — thanks to my nieces and nephews who shower them with attention and have even given them names?)

So, there I stood — steer slobber on my jacket sleeve and still too terrified to move. I looked to the kitchen window, where I knew Mom would eventually see me flailing my arms. First, Mom hollered out the window, “Are you OK?” “No,” I shouted. Then she came to the garage door. “Do you need help?” she asked. “Yes,” I shouted. “I’m scared!” Mom walked out to the cattle gate, from where she told me to just starting walking toward her. I couldn’t move. “Come get me,” I pleaded. And, as I hope any parent would do, she came to my rescue. When she was finally by my side, Mom took the tarp from my hands and shook it at the steers. Oh boy, here we go again. The steers got all excited and kicked up their back legs. To them, this was some sort of game and we were the pawns.

“Take a run for it,” Mom said.

Yeah right. I should mention here that I was wearing Mom’s garden clogs — clogs that were two sizes too small for my “Buntjer-gene” big feet.

In the end, Mom took me by the arm and practically pulled my trembling body into motion. She flapped the tarp as we briskly walked toward the cattle gate, with all three steers jumping and kicking and having a grand ol’ time at my expense.

Safely on the other side, my fingers were shaking so much that Mom had to latch the cattle gate.

I took one last look at the cattle, muttered something like, “I can’t wait until you go to the butcher shop,” and headed into the house. No sooner had I entered the living room when Dad put down the newspaper he’d been hiding behind and flashed a big grin … that quickly broke into a chuckle. “What’s the matter? Did those steers scare you?” he asked. Gee, whatever gave him that idea?

Goosed by the Gander

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I’ve been racking my brain to come up with farm tales to share with my online blog readers during this National Agriculture Week, but now in my third year of blogging, I’m running out of personal farm tales that people haven’t already heard.

I was sharing my quandary with a co-worker the other day when she asked, “Well, did you ever have geese on the farm?”

Oh, did we ever!

If you grew up on a farm with geese, you must have a story to share.

I’m pretty sure the year was 1980 — that’s the year my oldest brother graduated from high school. It was also Kevin’s last year in the 4-H program, and he wanted to go out with a bang … something like 15 or 20 fair projects were on his list (including livestock and poultry entries, of course).

That summer on the farm was a dangerous one for a 9-year-old like me, and a lot of it had to do with a Simmental steer named Big Red. I thought I’d written about him before, but since I couldn’t find it in a search through my blog, I may just have to wrap up this week’s ramblings with a blog about the beast that nearly killed me (watch for it on farmbleat.areavoices.com).

At least Big Red was kept behind a fence — the geese were free to roam the farmyard and attack at will. (Notice, I didn’t say if provoked … I wouldn’t do that to a goose!)

The geese were on the farm that year because Kevin thought it would be great to take chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese to the fair as 4-H projects.

Now, geese are very territorial, so we kids had to be careful not to get into their way. A walk to the barn was one thing, but a walk to the barn with a detour to the chicken house was quite another. One cross-eyed look or “na na na boo-boo” at those geese and we were in for a game of tag. The goose was “it,” and we were caught when we, er, got goosed!

I can’t tell you how many times those mean ol’ birds chased me back toward the house screaming “Mommy, mommy — they’re gonna git me!”

Even Smokey wasn’t safe — she was our faithful mutt at the time, and I can still picture her and the geese running in circles. It was rather obvious that she was the one getting chased, and not the one doing the chasing.

As if getting goosed by the geese wasn’t bad enough, we had to endure their incessant honking (more like squawking) and their slimy, messy, everywhere-you-look droppings.

The summer of 1980 … I’m pretty sure it was the summer I never went barefoot down on the farm.

Baa, Baa Black Sheep

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It’s National Agriculture Day today, but more importantly, it’s National Agriculture Week – yes, a whole week dedicated to honoring America’s men and women who work hard to put meat, fruit and vegetables on your dinner plate, milk in your glass and shoes on your feet.

Each year at this time, I strive to write a daily blog (my regular readers have likely noticed my struggles to blog even once a week lately … sorry about that!)

As I was thinking about my tales of farm life to share this week, it wasn’t difficult to come up with an idea. For the past week, my Grandma Elizabeth has been on my mind often. She was moved into an assisted living facility a few days ago, and I know the move has been a difficult one for her.

Once she’s settled, I have no doubt she will like her new surroundings. Grandma, a once strong – and strong-willed – farm woman, has been without her husband for more than 30 years. The oldest of five children, she’s the only one still living. She’s lost family, friends and neighbors, and once told me that it’s no fun to live to be as old as she. She’s experienced a lot of loss, and now, she’s lost the apartment that had become so familiar to her.

Anyway, with Grandma on my mind and a farm tale to write about, I decided to share one of my favorite memories of Grandma on the farm.

The year was 1991. It was my last year in 4-H, my second year at Worthington Community College (which meant it was the last year the farm was my permanent residence), and the spring my dad endured the second of his open heart surgeries.

I had a barn full of goats and sheep to take care of, but thankfully most of the kidding and lambing was done before I was thrust into solo livestock production.

Grandma came from her home in rural Danube to stay at the farm and keep us kids (basically younger brother Jason and myself) company. She loves baby animals as much as I do, and would often join me for the evening chores – if for nothing more than to pet the goats and let the bottle lambs nibble at her fingers.

As I mentioned, it was my last year in 4-H, and I was required to select my show lambs and complete an enrollment affidavit for each of them. This required me to weigh my lambs and pierce their ears with plastic, numbered tags.

Well, Grandma and I had quite the predicament. How were we supposed to weigh the lambs?

I don’t recall just whose idea it was, but we decided to carry the bathroom scale out to the barn (the alternative would have been to carry the lamb to the house … but that would not have gone over too well with Mom!)

Once the scale was in place, we pondered just how we were supposed to get a lamb to not only stand still on it, but do so long enough for me to read the dial and determine its weight.

Grandma’s solution: Go get the steel wash basin, set it on top of the scale, weigh the basin, and then subtract it from the weight of the lamb in the basin.

Her plan worked spectacularly – or at least that’s how I remember it. I think Grandma kept a hand on the lamb so it wouldn’t jump out, and I read the dial and recorded the information.

I’m sure we looked a sight after it was all done – me a muddy mess after first catching the lambs I needed and then carrying them to the basin, and Grandma in her scarf and Mom’s boots getting dirtied by keeping the lambs in their place in the basin.

I remember Grandma and I sharing a lot of laughs that afternoon – especially when she said, “I wonder what your Dad will think when you tell him how we weighed your lambs?”
My response: “He doesn’t have to know!”

I did tell him the story while he was still recovering at the hospital and, though he laughed at our method, he never said, “Well, you should have done this…” or “Why didn’t you…” like a typical dad would do.

Grandma and I … two farm women – two strong-willed farm women – proved we can do just fine with a little muscle, a little brain power, and a whole lot of determination.