The Real Enemy

Have any of you read the Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites series by Chris Heimerdinger?  They were popular at our house for a while.  In the second book some Gadianton Robbers find the time warp and make it from Book of Mormon times to present day.  Of course this is fiction, who believes in time warps?

Except.

When you have to get up before the sun to feed the cows, this somehow seems like a very real possibility.  What if the Gadianton's were hiding between the stacks?  I had to check.  In hind sight, I'm really not sure what I would have done had I confronted one Gadianton.  Probably pee.

Thankfully, I never encountered such an enemy.  The real threat, however, does not walk around with a loin cloth and war paint armed with swords and cimeters.  It disguises itself as some sweet, loving, barnyard creature, innocently lapping up spilled milk from the barn floor, sweetly rubbing against ones leg begging for attention, purring with contentment.

Until...

You approach the stack in the dark.

Aaaahhhhh!!!  Bat cat strikes again!  Full on heart seizure ensues, finally, as your heart beat nears normal, you carefully peek around to make sure nobody saw, realize that somehow, amazingly, your pants are still dry, and finish feeding the cows.

The other very real enemy to cow feeders???

Who of us have not had to traverse upward between two stacks in pursuit of hay in a fashion similar to this:

Thanks for the demo young Jason.

Anyway, that moment when you have neared the top and a dang flock of birds decide to exit the stack and greet you?  Or fly into you.  (Have you seen that old bird movie?  Frightening.)  Start heart seizure process again only this chain of events may or may not include you falling to near death bouncing between the two stacks like a Plinko chip.

It's amazing any of us made it out alive.  Really.

Why Do They Call it PMS???

BECAUSE MAD COW DISEASE WAS ALREADY TAKEN!!!

Haha... Levi's favorite joke.

But seriously, this is one story about a mad cow you are not gonna wanna miss!

From Jason:

Every morning before school I had to feed the cows.  While I was feeding, either Dad or Uncle Ross would milk the cows, if they saw me in the morning they would con me into gathering the cows from the corral to the holding pen for them.  

One such morning, I guess I wasn't sneaky enough, so Ross got me to go get the cows for him.  I hiked up the hill and brought all the cows down and around, when I got to the straw pile I did all my whooping and hollering to get the cows up and going; there was one cow in the corner that was not getting up. I walked along the wall up to her and kicked her to get her going.  She looked at me and as she got up, she charged at me!  With a lightning-quick-farm-ninja move, I stepped to the side and she hit her head on the wall. As I looked at her from a distance, she seemed pretty defensive. I decided not to press my luck with her so I just looked at her number (I can’t remember what it was now) and went on. When I had gathered the rest of the cows in the holding pen, I went in and let Uncle Ross know I had gathered them all except for one and gave him the cow’s number.  

Ross asked “Why didn't you bring her in?”

When I told him that the cow had charged me he gave me a questioning look as if I were talking nonsense.  He confirmed the number with me and was pretty confident that “that cow would not do such a thing.”  Together we went out to get the cow.  As we neared the straw pile he went up to check the number on the tag as I hung back, keeping my distance from the mad cow.  

When Ross confirmed the number he turned around to tell me that “this cow would not hurt a …..”

As he spoke I saw the cow charging toward him in the background, I pointed at the cow stuttering Uncle Ross's name.

Uncle Ross said “What?”

He turned around to see what I was pointing at; just then the cow hit him sending him sliding in the fresh manure.  The cow broke off and turned around for another run.  Not quite sure what to do I waved my arms and hollered while Ross raised his hand at the cow while working his way off the ground. Between the commotions the two of us made, the cow backed off.  

As we walked away from the straw pile I said to Uncle Ross “Nice cow huh?”

He didn't have much to say.

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Aren't you glad you stopped by?!?  I told ya it was a good one!  To keep reading such fine literature, e-mail me your stories!  jami_c_hurst@hotmail.com

Udder Chaos!

Straight from my journal... and everyone knows you can't lie in your journal.  Haha... wish I would have written more about my farm experiences and less about my romantic obsession of the week...

Added commentary is in parenthesis.

May 29, 2000-Memorial Day

Fed my cows at 6 am, then went to the flat and Dad and I moved 3 lines and set one line over the fence. We were waiting for Ross to come and pick up the line, but after waiting a few minutes, we got a little bored so we moved one of Alberto's lines (Ahh, yes, farm bored).  Boy!  That was fun!  NOT!  It was mud up to about my knee!  Ross finally got there and while we were picking up the line we got stuck, so Aaron had to walk about a mile to get another pick-up and a chain to pull us out.  In the mean time, the rest of us walked about 1/4 mile with hammers, pliers, and fence posts to build a gate.  Good times.  We made our gate and got the line all picked up, so I'm thinkin' "Yeah! I'm goin' home!"  So I sat on the tool box and took off my boots and socks.  (This is where things get interesting.)

Well... there had been a  cow get out through our gate.  So they (Dad and Ross) decided they should probably put it back in.  First they were chasing the cow on foot, running down the fence line yelling at the cow.  I thought it would go right in the gate (like every other cow we'd ever chased-sheesh... you think a girl would learn from experience).  Well, obviously the cow had another plan and she took off.  So, Ross got in the pick-up and continued the chase.

Well... Brad and I were sitting on top of the big tool box in the back.  Now, I don't know if Ross forgot that we were back there or if he really just didn't care (I tell myself the first and it helps me sleep better at night).  But off we went... swerving back and forth, slowing down and suddenly speeding up again, bouncing over sagebrush, uneven ground and what felt like small sink-holes.  There was more than one occasion when Brad and I wondered if we would make it home alive.  We were holding on for dear life.  Every time we turned we prayed that we would stay on the toolbox.  When we swerved left Brad had white knuckles and silver-dollar eyes.  One violent jerk of the steering wheel and we were suddenly turning right which meant Brad could relax a little and it was my turn in panic mode with the wide eyes and white knuckles.  Back and forth it went.  (These 5-10 minutes felt like hours... I think Brad will agree.)  Finally we hit a bump that knocked Brad off the toolbox and into the bed of the truck.  Normally, I would have helped him.  But, since my own life was in jeopardy, he was on his own.

Every time we slowed down a bit, poor Brad would try to make it back to the tool box, but just as he would get up we would speed up and he would jerk backwards or we would swerve and he would hit one of the sides of the pick-up.  Finally, he decided we were never going to slow down, so he decided to just go for it, naturally, just then, Ross slammed on the breaks and Brad once again hit the side of the pick-up.  But this time, he landed in a corner and decided that he would just stay there.

The corner looked pretty cozy... pretty safe.  Safer than the toolbox.  So, I let go and let myself fall into the back of the truck.  Unfortunately, I landed on a chainsaw and my bare foot hit a roll of barbed wire from previously mentioned fencing project.  So my little toe was all cut up.  But like I said, the corner represented safety, so when I got to one, I stayed there.

The crazy chase wasn't enough to scare the cow through the gate, but I guess she decided the fence would be OK.  So she went right through the middle of it.  (Cows!)  One more fence to fix before we could go home...

After the cow was safely on the inside, and fences mended, I asked Brad if he wanted back on the tool box.  He shook his head, a definate "NO!"  However, Aaron joined and made a third passenger, Brad decided the tool box would be okay if he was the middle passenger.  We decided we had just experienced something far better than a carnival ride (though neither one of us wanted a second ride... ever).

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.”