Tag Archives: national agriculture week

From one scoop to another

Posted on by
Reply

Happy National Agriculture Week! I realize the week is half over, but agriculture production, innovation, research and processing happens every day, everywhere around us.

We shouldn’t be celebrating agriculture just one week out of the year; we should be celebrating agriculture every day.

From the cotton fields of North Carolina to the California vineyards, and from the cattle ranches of Texas to the corn rows of Minnesota — from the food on our plates to the britches on our behinds, agriculture is at the forefront of our everyday lives.

Agriculture touches so much around us that we tend to forget it is there — kind of like the air we breathe.

As I was trying to think of a farm tale to share with you, I kept thinking of my own family. My parents were part-time farmers with full-time jobs. Mom worked at Campbell’s Soup, pulling chicken meat off of wing bones; my Dad worked on the kill floor and eventually in packaging for Iowa Beef Processors. My three brothers and I were blue-collar kids spending our summers picking rock, walking beans, gathering eggs and feeding livestock.

Personally, I’d say it was the best childhood anyone could ask for, except for those dreaded tasks of baling hay and scooping manure.

That latter part — scooping manure — was a job I ended up doing more often than any of my three brothers, combined. The goat and the sheep herds were mine, and scooping their poop was just part of my job as a farmer. There was no such thing as a skid-loader on our farm back then. It was pure dirty, smelly, manual farm labor and it always seemed to take forever to get the pens clean.

 Pipes — bulging arm muscles — are never a good look for a girl, but I was a big-boned, German-rooted farm girl, and those pipes I built up in my teen years were the direct result of carrying five-gallon buckets of feed and shoveling soiled straw.

I wouldn’t say those pipes are sagging yet, but they sure haven’t been used like they were back then.

Trading in one scoop for another does that, I suppose.

Yes, I went from scooping manure in my teen years to searching for the scoop as a newspaper reporter and career woman. Agriculture is one of my beats, and I tend to travel with a pair of boots in the back of my car — waiting for my next on-the-farm interview.

Agriculture is still very much a part of who I am; it always will be. And, while production agriculture appears much different today from my growing-up years, it’s still the same. There are still farmers who tend to their animals and their crops. They put their heart and soul into the work they do, and that will never change.

So, thanks farmers — whether you’re retired or just plain tired — your work doesn’t go unnoticed.

Facing my Fears; Screaming for Help

Posted on by
6

(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

Posted on by
Reply

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

Posted on by
Reply

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.

Woman’s best friend

Posted on by
Reply

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.