The Man Who Was Born Twice

My father was born in 1933 in Opelousas, Louisiana. His birth certificate says so. His parents, the ones who raised him, lived in Iuka, Kansas. They didn't meet him until he was five years old. In that five year span there is little known of his life. Somehow a woman named Williams brought him to Kansas. There are two likely scenarios. Either his birth mother up and gave him to this woman, or an agency something like today's social services removed him from the home and placed him in the custody of the Williams lady.

Once he was in Kansas, he ended up at the orphanage at Newton with a different name from the one on his birth certificate. This is a mystery.  

My grandparents already had a five-year-old daughter. She was as cute as a bug and had won a pretty baby contest. But they yearned for another baby and they weren't having any luck. Eventually, they made an appointment with the orphanage and met with the administrator.  Grandma told me she could hear babies crying while the woman lied and claimed there weren't any babies available. However, there was a little boy she'd like for them to meet.

Back in the day, the orphanage was situated on a working farm which provided meat, milk, eggs, and garden produce for their sustenance as well as an income from livestock and crops. She and granddad walked around the area with the shy child. Eventually, they came to a pen of cattle, and the little guy climbed up on the fence.

"I like those cows."

That's all it took to convince Grandpa he had found his son.  One look had melted Grandma's heart and kicked her nurturing instincts into overdrive.

Even after reading the adoption decree it is unclear how or why the orphanage had custody of my dad. However, they swore out an affidavit in court that they had the legal right to release my father to my grandparents. I wonder, now that there is no one to ask, if anyone thought to ask that child if he would like to go home with these strangers.

His new parents immediately changed his name to one of their choosing. For several years the family was subject to visits to make sure the adoptee was being treated correctly. Dad was a rough and tumble child and sometimes he was a little banged up. My grandmother lived in a constant state of anxiety that she could lose him.

When dad was nineteen, she had a new birth certificate filed with the State of Louisiana. Nearly all the vital statistics were the same except for the names of the parents. Finally, she had written proof he was her son and no one could take him away from her.

Watering the Cattle

With such frigid temperatures during February, my ranching friends can relate to this tale. 

My dad rented a winter wheat pasture where he grazed his calves. The location included a large, shallow pond at one end where the cattle drank. Cattle don't lick ice. I'm not saying they won't lick some moisture up, but they cannot obtain their daily needs from ice. In the summer the average beef, depending on its' size, the ambient temperature and a variety of other variables, requires around 27 gallons per day. They don't drink that much in the winter, but they must have water. Therefore, when the temperature dropped and a thick layer of ice formed, dad put on his galoshes, tromped a half mile out to the pond with his ax and chopped ice a couple of times a day.  

A big storm blew in, and Dad was unable to tend to the herd. By the time he made it to the pasture carrying his ax, the cattle were eager for a drink. He walked out on the ice, and they came running. The entire herd ran to him. I don't remember how many head he had in that pasture, but at least 50. 

Forty or fifty 600 pound calves joined dad on the frozen pond. Cracking and popping sounds filled the air, but as he watched in horror, the entire slab of ice sank into the frigid water below.  He had no idea of the depth of the pond. He tried walking on water as bone-chilling liquid rapidly topped his galoshes and filled his boots. 

Frantic questions raced through his mind. Could he get out of the pond swimming in frigid water with all the calves? How long would it be before someone wondered where he was? What would his family do without him? Cattle surrounded him, many with their heads down slurping water. Relief filled his heart as the plate of ice settled, leaving him standing in knee deep water. 

Now to create a path through the contentedly drinking herd. He swatted cattle out of the way with his hat and gingerly waded to higher ground. From there, he squished to the road and got in his pickup, wondering if he'd ever be able to feel his toes again. 

He never had to break the ice for that particular group of cattle again. They learned to break ice under their combined weight.

Watusi Cattle

My father raised Watusi for many years. These domesticated African cattle should not be confused with Longhorns. The Ankole-Watusi have been registered as a breed in the U.S. since 1983.  Dad was interested in them for three reasons. The first was his life-long abiding fascination with anything different or unusual. The second was the fact the meat is lean, and much like venison with no marbling. Third, the cows have easy births dropping forty pound calves. Rarely does an owner lose a cow or calf or require a visit from the vet.

There are two ways to describe the Ankole-Watusi.  Foundation Pure which means 100% pure bloodlines.  Or, Native Pure, which means a crossbred animal has been bred back to pure until it is 15/16ths Watusi DNA.

Dad also liked their disposition.  Although they have the most massive horns of any cattle breed, they aren't considered aggressive.  The lyre-shaped horns are the animal's air-conditioner with excess body heat dispersed through the blood vessels in the horns.

      I admit to being a little anxious when Grandpa led the kids among the herd to this baby.

Watusi need their space.  If too closely confined, they will swing their horns at one another demanding more room.  They also use their horns to brush flies away.  Most cattle would use their tail. They can accidentally knock a person down when they suddenly swing their head.

After they are butchered, the skull and horns make great decor. Dad donated a set of horns to many a local fund-raiser.

 
If you would like to see more images or learn more, here are a couple of links.


https://livestockconservancy.org/index.php/heritage/internal/ankole-watusi
http://www.awir.org/Ankole Watusi International Registration+