The Day Bertha Blew

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.”