Boys...

Life on the farm is certainly different than city life.  A prerequisite for being a farm kid is a healthy imagination--which leads to activities that may or may not be so healthy... or safe as Joe explains.

From Joe:

There is no logic reason, or limit to what boys can do when they get together. We can’t explain why it is so amusing to build a Catapult with a 2X4, a rock fulcrum, a stray farm cat, and a bail of hay being tossed off the top of the ten wheeler overshot. I can’t tell you why we are curious how much weight a cow eyeball can hold before it explodes, after it is extracted using precision surgical tools like old timer pocket knives and pliers.

We had a common thread of unity because these things made normally boring farm life exciting and new, and we were only limited by our creativity and the school of hard knocks, like not to pee on an oil fire, or blow up toilets with M80s. Yet there are some things which normal people out of respect for the dead would give any creature a proper burial, but to these boys, I won’t name them (Sam, Joe, Steve, Aaron.) When an animal dies not much is sacred, especially when it comes to mean old roosters which would peck your eyes out if given the opportunity.

On one joyous occasion one of the roosters deceased, (I swear it was an accident.) but no one buried this old miserable bird. Instead we suddenly found joy in using the rotting poultry as a genius tool of pranks as long as it was staying together. I think it went hidden in a bucket of grain once, and tied to a entry way to the grain shed, and I may have waited for Sam for some time to plant the rotting bird in his chest, I can’t quite remember the details, but Sam might. I forgot about what I did, and life went on.

Life went on and the chicken got even more rotten. Over the smell of manure and cows I could always smell it when I went to feed my cows. I would smell it, then I would find it. Work that summer was hard for young boys who had ADD, and an imagination, but the cows had to be fed. The stacks were always close to the mangers and Ross would not let us toss the bails off the side of the stack into the manager, we had to peel them off the front and carry them back between the manger and the stack.

To save time I would usually carry two bails back at a time, one bouncing off the front of my right leg, and another bouncing off of my back left leg, then I would shimmy between the stack and the manger to get to feed the cows.

One day I was doing my shimmy on the 3^rd manger and I got all the way to the cow trough and suddenly I could smell something. I had smelled it before. Like something had died and had set out in the sun for several days. The chicken. No sooner had I identified the smell, the mass of feathers, claws beak, and worm infested flesh came crashing down on my head. Sam had made a direct hit from on top of the hay stack. Mission accomplished.

I decided from that point to call a truce because I knew Sam was not scared to see my dead chicken and raise me one dead cow falling from the sky. I think I got over pretty fast considering it felt like that thing hit me at terminal velocity.

As I think back on those days there was nothing in my life I have experienced that has been as pure and as fun or as hard as those days growing up on the farm. People from there never forget where they come from. They work hard, pray hard, and play hard. Brothers, sisters and friends. We all go our different directions in life, yet when we come together after years we just sort of pick up where we left off, and that is priceless.   

Pepe Le Pew Part Two

From Kammy:

Sorry, but keeping a journal has never been one of my strengths, much to my regret when I try to come up with names, dates and details.  Anyway, one morning when Levi was a Junior or Senior, the dog was making a fuss by the cars when he headed out to do chores before school.  When Levi jumped in his car later to head to tech, it smelt like skunk and we figured the dog had been warning one off the property.   We just hoped the dog didn’t get sprayed in the process.

Surprisingly, the aroma still lingered when I got in our car to head into town later that morning.  I thought maybe a tire or something had caught part of the skunk’s retaliation.  The smell got worse as I headed down the hill.  I tried opening the window and ventilating, but it didn’t help.  Something wasn’t right.  Stopping at the barn, I jumped out and lifted the hood to check for a dead skunk.

Nope, not dead, two paws and then the little critter’s head popped out from behind the engine block.  "Whoa boy!  Stay!"  I can assure you it didn’t take me long to close the hood and head into the barn for Juel’s help.  Yes, I think I was half in shock, I know I was pretty shaky and not very coherent when I tried to explain the situation to Juel.   Tony, pulled up in his truck just as we came out of the barn ("oops, sorry I’m in the way guy, but I am NOT getting back into that car to move it!")  Juel lifted the hood, sure enough, it wasn’t just my imagination.  The little beast stared back at us, his beady little eyes were issuing a challenge.    Juel used a broken shovel handle and nudged the guy, trying to get him to leave on his own steam.   No luck, he was sticking to his make-shift fox hole.   Ross had shown up by this time and joined Juel and Tony in trying to come up with the best removal solution for our adversary .  Tony volunteered the pistol stashed in his cab; but since bullets and engines don’t mix, the idea was put on the back burner.   Juel kept mentioning he had heard skunks couldn’t spray if you picked them up by the tail and kept their hind legs off the ground.  I think he was seeking reassurance from his fellowmen, but none came.  Finally, they decided to go ahead and test the theory.   Juel would pick the skunk up by the tail (still can’t decide if he was brave or just stupid! But, hey, he was coming to my rescue so ya got to give him points either way) then throw him towards the ditch; then Tony, who had retrieved said pistol, would “take him out.”  It was a shoot-out at high noon!  (Hopefully,with the humans being the only ones shooting!)

Juel took a step forward and the rest of us took a step back.  We all held our breath as he reached in and grabbed PePe’ le Pew’s tail and pulled his resisting body from the trenches.  Mission accomplished!  Well, at least he was out of the car, but now he was dangling from Juel’s outstretched arm and he wasn't pleased; but, thankfully, he was still “keeping it together!”   Juel walked over and tossed the skunk into the weeds.    I think he was a little dazed after his ordeal; because he just kind of scrunched himself together and stood there.  (The skunk, not Juel. . .well, come to think of it Juel was a little dazed, too.) 

Anyway, now it was “dead eye dick’s (aka Tony’s) turn; he raised his pistol, took careful aim, squeezed the trigger and. . .missed!   You’d think that would have had the little varmint running for his life;  but no,  he cowered in place as our gunslinger lined up his sights again, shot  and . . .missed again!   Just goes to show that ten paces doesn’t necessarily mean you’re  gonna get your. . .skunk.   Wish I could say the third time was the charm.   (And you always thought those shooting galleries at the carnival were rigged.)   I honestly can’t remember if the skunk was shot or the poor little guy finally came to his senses and slunk into the ditch (the skunk, not Tony,) but Juel tells me Tony finally prevailed.  With the excitement over and Tony suitably embarrassed, I climbed into my car and headed to Burley with a smile on my face. . .and the windows down!!!

*Tony  was hauling some of our hay.

Did You Hear the Joke About the Skunk?

Never mind, it stinks...

                           Ross


From Kammy:

One night the kids and I returned home after dark from a trip to town.  Levi was in charge of the chickens and I pulled into the lower lot so my car lights would shine towards the coop; giving him enough light to feed them and gather the eggs.   He opened the door and entered; when he exited a few seconds later he had a stunned look on his face.   I guess three skunks in a 5’ by 5’ coop rattles you just a little bit.  Well, as most of you probably know chickens and skunks do not cohabitate in a friendly manner.   This would usually be where Juel stepped up to the plate, but he was in Malta taking care of some church responsibilities.   With no husband and no gun, I turned to Ross, he graciously grabbed his 22 and came to our aid.

Ross headed to the coop to check things out, Levi as his assistant.  I bravely held the gun at the far end of the coop.  Ross popped back out to get the gun, confirming Levi’s report of three skunks.  Levi stayed at his post, albeit with lots of disgusting noises.   Returning, Ross took position and shot the first intruder.  Levi was carrying on rather loudly about the situation and the skunk.   From my well- ventilated corner,  I was trying to talk him down and said something to the effect of, “Levi, calm down, it’s not that bad!”  Ross came walking out and looked at me with tears running down his face and said, “OH, YES IT IS!”  

I can’t remember how the rest of the culprits where dealt with, seems like maybe Ross took out one more and the third dirty little cheese ball escaped,  but the images and sounds of that moment are branded on my memory.   Taking into account the situation, I managed not to laugh that night, but every time I relate the incident and my memory pulls up the image of Ross’s face and the pitch of his wretched rejoinder, the laughter can’t be contained.     

 Anyway, with the skunks gone the surviving chickens (No, not me, the feathered ones) and the mighty hunters could call it and night and go to bed. . .well, maybe after a shower!

 P.S.  Thanks Ross for coming to our rescue on this and other occasions, and for supporting Juel in his callings.

_________________________________________________________

Surely a good skunk story brings a memory to your mind... send it my way!  jami_c_hurst@hotmail.com

Oh Deer!

Like most of you, I have always been known for driving at “reasonable speeds”.  Dad and I had an agreement that a “reasonable speed” for Juniper Road was 45 mph.  One morning I was headed to school in the blue Pontiac Phoenix (not much of a looker, but man, that was a cozy ride).  Really, I was only doing about 45, I promise.  Just past Rushton’s, but not quite to Ben’s, a suicidal deer jumped out of the tall grass in the borrow pit… Thunk.

Nailed it.

So, I thought “well, I’m less than a mile from home, I should probably turn around and run home real quick and let Dad check out the car and make sure it will get me safely to school and back home again.  As I was driving back to the dairy, I was a little nervous about telling Dad about my misfortune, trying to figure out exactly how I would present my predicament and trying to figure out what Dad’s reaction might be (Why was I worried?  Have you met that guy?  Does not anger easily…) 

Thunk.

Are you serious?!? (Some other expletives may or may not have crossed my mind at this minute.)

For Real.  I totally hit another deer. 

Good grief.  Now I am really nervous about telling Dad.  My stomach was in knots as I walked into the barn parlor where Dad was completing the morning milking. 

Me in a shaky voice.  “Dad?”

Dad let the current batch of cows out, closed the gait, and turned to listen.

“I hit a deer.  But I was only going 45, I promise, you said 45 was a good speed for this road.”

Dad “Not when there are deer!”

I continued with my tale at what I’m sure was 100 miles a minute. “But then I turned around for you to look at the car and... I hit another deer.”

Dad shot me a look of disbelief and kind of laughed (what a relief).  “You hit two deer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you didn't hit the same deer twice.”

“Yeah, I’m sure, there is no way that first deer could have jumped out of the grass that fast again.  I hurt her for sure.”

Dad got the next batch of cows going and followed me to my car.

Observing the deer feces (and fur) on the front of my car, “You scared the crap out of them!”

Haha… I love that guy!  We checked out the car, all looked well, but decided just to be safe I should drive the Suburban to school (maybe he was worried I would hit another one and needed a better defense?). 

It’s Juniper/Malta, I don’t know why I was surprised when everyone somehow knew about the deer before I got to school.  Everyone except Diana… haha it was like 6 months or a year later when she asked me about my deer episode. :)

And yes, dad went out and indeed found TWO dead (or nearly dead) deer part way up the hill.

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.

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.”