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.

Driving Lessons

My grandfather always drove a pickup with standard transmission and a stick shift. He was one of those old farmers who drove real slow and drifted onto the wrong side of the road while he checked out the crops. He didn't drive much faster on the highway, but he did stay on his side of the pavement. 

Since his pickup had four gears, he used all of them even though he seldom drove more than 30 mph.  Also, he had large feet and was in the habit of resting his size 13's on the clutch pedal. He burned out a clutch on the average of once a year.

He and my dad rented a pasture to graze their cattle. It was a picturesque spot with a creek running through it. His in-laws, my great-grandparents, lived in a modest house on the property.  It was a lovely spot for a picnic or wiener roast.

I was twelve years old on one of the times everyone in the family had gathered there. He took me for a ride in the pasture where he aimlessly drove in circles and figure eights. I knew we weren't counting cattle because they had all moseyed off to another section of grass. He went through the gear sequence a couple of times without ever topping 10 mph. 

With no warning, he took the pickup out of gear, coasted to a stop, and got out. 

"Okay. When you can change gears without making a screeching noise bring it back to the house."  He turned and walked off toward the house with his long legs eating up the ground while I sat in stunned silence.

Wait. Come back. You were giving me a driving lesson? All sorts of uncharitable thoughts whirled through my mind as I contemplated running after him demanding to know why he hadn't mentioned that I was being schooled or that there would be a pop quiz. Instead, I reluctantly slid across the bench seat and adjusted it forward until I could reach the pedals.

I had been driving the car ever since I got tall enough to see over the steering wheel at age ten, but this was a different situation. The car drove itself while I steered and gave it some gas.  Driving the pickup involved an intricate ballet of using two feet to manipulate the brake, clutch, and gas. One hand finessed the stick shift into the proper gear while the other stayed on the steering wheel. 

I already had a pretty good idea that I didn't want to shift from a forward gear into reverse. But how was I supposed to find the gears? Fortunately, the shifting pattern was printed on the knob of the stick. Gritting my teeth and hoping I was shifting into low, I moved the lever up and to the left, gave it some gas and eased out on the clutch pedal. The pickup lurched a little but didn't die on the spot or let out any audible complaints. 

I was a natural at this driving stuff. Before long I was running through the gears although I knew perfectly well from comments my dad had made that one shouldn't use the higher gears at low speeds. 

HA!  Take that, Old Man. Joyfully, I steered toward the gate and eased out onto the dirt road. Everyone was looking at me a few minutes later when I turned into the driveway. I was feeling pretty cocky by then. I was running out of driveway when it occurred to me I didn't know how to make the pickup stop, at least not gracefully. I put my foot on the brake and it died. 

Oh, well. At least I didn't run into my great-grandparents ancient 1940's sedan. I got out of the pickup and sat down at the bonfire. Grandpa didn't say a word to me about my driving, and I didn't say anything to him either.

Years later, sitting around with my cousins, reminiscing about the grandparents, I related this story. My two oldest boy cousins perked up and said he had pulled an identical stunt on them when they were about the same age.

Snowmobile

Merry Christmas. This isn't a holiday memory, but it is associated with winter. 

We have a cousin in the Oklahoma Panhandle who had all the toys. He probably thought the same about us. During the winter, he played as hard as he had worked all spring, summer, and fall on his farm. 

In the late 1970's, he and his dad owned a set of snowmobiles, a Harley Davidson and a John Deere model. The chances of snow weren't all that dependable in their locale, but they watched the weather reports and traveled to the white stuff if it wasn't too far away.

That is how they showed up at our farm after we were blessed with heavy snowfall. The pasture provided well over one hundred unobstructed acres in which to play if we stayed away from the pond and windmill. The adventurous could catch some air on a couple of small hills. None of us had the proper clothing, but we weren't far from the house if we got too cold or wet. 

To me, the snowmobiles looked like a motorcycle on skis. I never liked riding behind my husband on his Honda. He said I didn't know how to move with the bike. Sitting on the ground on skis, a snowmobile looked more stable, and I had fun sitting behind him, riding around the pasture on the Harley. 

In their conversations about the merits of the John Deere over the Harley, I remember that the guys said the John Deere was faster. In their opinion, the Harley was overweight and underpowered, but it would still get up to 40 mph. I thought that was an excellent benefit since to me it meant the Harley wouldn't get any crazy ideas like doing an unanticipated, motorized ski jump. 

However, it did demonstrate its shortcomings when we topped a hill and found a deep snowdrift. We broke through the crust, and the Harley sank like a skater falling through the ice on a pond. I could see why it wouldn't float on top of five or six feet of loose snow, but I didn't understand why it lost momentum and wouldn't keep going once there were only a few inches of snow between it and the ground. Maybe it had something to do with the skis. As I've mentioned before, mechanical devices confound me. Anyway, it lost traction. We got off and stomped the snow down around the machine. My husband said we'd have better luck getting it out of the drift if he walked along beside it running the controls while I pushed. In other words, we needed to lighten the load and get out of the drift.

It sounded like a reasonable suggestion since I didn't know the brake from the throttle, or how to put it in gear. I was only along for the ride. We got into position. I placed my hands at the back of the seat and got ready to push. He restarted the machine and nudged the throttle. No luck.

He explained I was going to have to push harder, so I dug my cold, wet feet into the packed snow like I was a racer in starting blocks and leaned into the seat. He put it in gear again and twisted the throttle. Before I could jump out of the way, the track (oh, that's what makes it go!) plastered me head to toe with half a foot of snow. I looked like the front side of a snowman.

He pretended to be surprised, but later admitted he wanted to roll in the snow laughing. Trying to defend himself, he said I should have intuitively known how snowmobiles move on snow. I didn't see any signs that warned of rear discharge. He said I looked as good in white snow as I did walking down the church aisle in my wedding dress. He said a lot of outrageous lies trying to calm my ire. 

After that, I don't recall what it took to get the Harley out of the drift. I wasn't speaking to him. I know I didn't 'push' it again. He jokes that I was so steamed up, my clothes were dry and warm when we got to the house.

Once there, the real ribbing began. He was hailed as a genius for managing to appear innocent while getting me into such a predicament. My name and the word gullible were linked quite a few times. To this day he claims he was gallantly protecting me from being run over by the snowmobile. 

Guess What?  That was the last time I rode one. And we are still married.