My Farmer and I spent the day in with the Cultivating Master Farmers group learning about estate and succession planning. Interesting day and overwhelming topic. Our trip home almost complete, my phone rang.
Breathless, my dad ignored hello and asked where we were, if we were close to home . . . being his home. “Yes, we’re in . . .”
“Head up to the pasture. We’re in Dixon and I got the call. Cows out.”
Cows out. It’s the call that makes a farmer jump . . . from the tractor, from the dinner table, from whatever chore, birthday party or cozy bed he or she lays. Cows out could mean many things.
Our neighbors just down the road, transplants from the ‘burbs (we didn’t hold that against them; great people) would routinely call and tell us the bull was in their yard. Usually it was an oversized calf or a cow . . . but what’s the difference when an unfamiliar animal is grazing amongst the rose bushes.
Late summer and early fall seemed to be the popular time to escape the pasture . . . grass being greener and everything. Cattle in the ditch or bean field or on a back road was one thing. Cattle in corn, a whole other story. Sometimes we’d leave them alone hoping the mama cow would call her baby from the field.
My dad is one of the few farmers left in his neck of the woods to run a cow/calf herd, so if an animal is out he usually gets the call. I think the sheriff’s department has his number on speed dial.
This was the case last night. So, My Farmer and I veered right instead of left and headed up to my parents’ place. Our biggest fear last night and any time was cattle on the road, particularly on our small stretch of Rural Route 2 where a gentle ‘s’ curve serves as a NASCAR track for many drivers.
Sure enough a black cow was pacing along the ditch opposite our pasture. Hazards on, My Farmer and I tromped into the dark night circling around into the freshly chiseled field. It was fate . . . I hadn’t worn heels to the meeting, just nice flats.
Thankfully, a few country friends were passing through and stopped. My father and brother arrived and we determined this was not one of my dad’s animals. Regardless, it was safe and off the road.
My Farmer reminded me on the ride home that he is a corn farmer because when he puts the kernels in the bin, they don’t breakout and run away . . . in the night or any time. My efforts to bring livestock to our farm thwarted once again.
Read more 30 Days of Farm Girl Memories
- Day 1: Surprise Kittens
- Day 2: The Men in My Life
- Day 3: Small Town Saturday Night
- Day 4: “Fall”ing in Love
- Day 5: A Bag of Caramels
- Day 6: Chores in the Dark
- Day 7: Things My Mother Said
- Day 8: Munchy Cheese
- Day 9: Super Swiffer Saturday
- Day 10: Dad’s Church
- Day 11: Kansas City, Then & Now
- Day 12: Video #Throwback: Field Meals
- Day 13: Eggs in A Nest
- Day 14: Baling
- Day 15: The Popcorn Stand
- Day 17: Popping Up Memories
- Day 18: Watching the Weather
- Day 19: The Secret Lives of Farmers
And find other 30 Day bloggers starting with the one who got us into this – Holly Spangler from My Generation.