This is one of my favorite memories of the farm... and one of the greatest stories. I used this story for an English class a few semesters ago for a "narrative" assignment. Good memories!
The Day Bertha Blew
Fall
2000: Uncle Eldon (a border patrol agent
in Bonners Ferry, Idaho) is at a government convention in New Mexico where he
runs into a Forest Ranger from Idaho Falls.
After talking for a little while, the Forest Ranger says, “Well, here’s
a funny story for you.” He proceeds with
a tale about how “some dairy farmers from Juniper, Idaho” sent their kids to
take care of a dead cow and “just dumped it” on BLM land. Juniper has a population of less than 60
people and only one dairy farm. Eldon
replied, “Hey, I think I know those guys.”
When Eldon called to verify the tale, Dad said “We’ll have to get Jami
to tell you the real story.”
It
was one of the best summers of my life.
I was fifteen years old and my dad’s “right-hand-man” on the farm. One of the fringe benefits to my job was
being the only girl working with the summer help--eight or so teenage boys,
including Jim and Brock. Jim a short, muscular guy with a wide smile and charming
sense of humor was quick to tease at any chance given him. Brock was
the popular guy at school. He was
smart, played sports, and never lacked in female admirers. He was the proverbial tall, dark, and
handsome… and totally ripped! On a scale
of one to ten, he was a fifteen.
The
summer had seen the routine chores of milking cows and caring for livestock, as
well as two big cement projects and hauling hay. Summer was starting to wind down; we had just
finished putting up third crop hay and wondered what jobs were in store for us
this hot August afternoon. The warm wind
blew scattered clouds across the blue sky and the unmistakable stench of the
dead cow located on the other side of the barn.
Lest you think the hot August weather preserves a dead dairy cow for a
week, I assure you, it does not. Bertha
was inflating at the rate of a helium balloon.
Relocating the cow a safe distance from human smell capability jumped to
the top of the day’s to-do list.
Dad
instructed the boys and me to take this cow and dump her “somewhere off the
road”; so as not to cause any problems with the Bureau of Land Management
(BLM). We hooked a chain around Bertha’s
feet and Dad helped us load her on the back of Old Blue, our
trusty-rusty-used-to-be-blue-older-than-my-grandpa International flat-bed hay
truck. We loaded up and off we went.
We
bounced down the gravel road as a thick cloud of dust circulated the cab of our
truck. I sat between Jim who was driving
and Brock in the passenger seat (see? fringe benefits). We
laughed and argued over who would have the privilege of unloading our putrid
smelling balloon cow. I cringed at the thought of being the one chosen to touch
the smelly beast. A few miles later, we
turned off the bumpy road onto what can only be described as a cow trail. We traveled over two strips of loose powdery
dirt as tall, dried grass and sagebrush scraped the bottom of the truck. Mind
you, we fully intended to follow Dad’s directions and give Bertha a fine
resting place “off the road”; but then… there at the end of the path was a
lonely cedar fence post illuminated by heavenly rays. It was the answer to our prayers. Dad had left the chain attached to Bertha’s
feet. This fine discovery would allow us
to simply connect the chain from Bertha’s feet to the post and drive off. Bertha would come off the truck; we would
collect our chain and be on our way back to the dairy. No one had to touch her.
As
Jim started to connect the chain to the post, Brock noticed that through our
bumpy travels Bertha had shifted to the edge of the truck with her feet hanging
over the side of the bed. Brock decided
it would be easy to merely push her legs and she would come off the truck in
180-degree fashion. He began to push on
her feet. I may be blonde, but I am NOT
stupid. It does not take a rocket
scientist to figure out what will happen to a bloated cow upon impact after a
four foot fall. I backed away keeping my
eyes on Brock and Bertha and quickly took cover at the front of Old Blue, knowing
something epic was about to go down.
I
can see it now like it happened yesterday-everything started to happen in slow
motion. With one final flex of his
perfectly sculpted chest and upper arms, Brock pushed down on Bertha’s hind
legs, off she came. Upon landing, air
launched into Bertha’s chest, her jaws started flapping and she started
“mooing” (no joking). Not only was she now
speaking to us, but dead-for-a-week-cow-juices were spewing out her mouth with
Old Faithful intensity. After the
initial shock wore off, Jim and I looked at each other and began laughing
hysterically. Not Brock, girlish screams
came from his direction as his arms and legs were flying and flapping about as
if trying to do an Irish jig.
When
his dance finally ended, Brock stood alone, spitting with fervor into the dried
sagebrush. Mathematically speaking: open
mouth whilst screaming plus dead-cow-mooing equals no bueno. Translation for
the English speaking folks: not good for Brock.
“Hey,
there’s water in the truck.” I smirked through my laughter.
“No
thank you!” Brock replied emphatically,
“I will not be having fluids for a while.”
Apparently, bloated cow juice doesn’t taste very good.
Never
being one who could control the giggles to save someone’s feelings, I laughed
all the way back to the dairy; as a now embarrassed Brock sat silently next to
me looking out the window. I laughed all
the way from the barn back to the house where lunch was waiting. Through the laughter, I managed to relay the
story to my dad who laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.
After
lunch, Dad and I walked back down to the shop where Brock was working on a
project. “Hey Brock,” my dad called,
“tell me what happened today.”
“I’m
sure Jami told you” was his flat response.
The “Do we really have to talk about this?” apparent in his voice.
“Yeah,
but she tends to exaggerate.”
“Not this time. I admit it, I was dancin’, prancin’,
screamin’ like a girl.” Our laughter
started all over again as Brock slumped his shoulders in resignation.
“And
that,” I told Uncle Eldon through the family newsletter, “is the real story. One I have thought of and giggled to myself
about countless times. A tale I have
recounted at the request of my Dad and others on multiple occasions. In Juniper, we call it legend.”
