Guest Post by Hardscrabble Farmer
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
-William Shakespeare
In the morning after the chickens and the turkeys have been fed and watered and the dogs and barn cats have had their rations I make my way to the pasture where the cattle are waiting. They know the sound of the tractor, send up their lowing across the hillsides and I look forward to seeing them, every day without fail. I usually open the gate before moving the round bale feeder and the bull is always the first to emerge from the pen. He makes sure that I am aware of him, that he is the dominant male in the herd by lowering his head and tucking himself towards me in a bluff before he moves out of the enclosure towards the last tufts of grass to graze. It is one of those instinctual moves, hard-wired into his musculature and intractable.
I am wise enough to give him the illusion of submission and after the rest of the herd moves out I go about my business and take apart the round pen panels and reassemble them while the dogs watch from a distance. The calves always set out at a trot, kick up their rear legs and then reform as a separate herd from their mothers. The heifers go right to work at grazing with delicate nibbles and alert glances towards the dogs and the sound of the metal pins and chains as the panels are brought into position. The bull calves pair off to butt heads or lift their lips and when they come close enough to the bull he will nod toward them and initiate their advance. They butt against his massive head and he plays a butt in return, softly, but with enough force to challenge their parry.
This plays out until the bullocks tire of it, bouncing off the weight of their sire, unmoved by the persistence of youth. It is a gentle exchange meant to encourage their defensive nature as they grow into mature bulls. Bring a new male bull into the mix, as we have done in the past, and that casual atmosphere becomes tense, the duel between dominant bull and newcomer a brutal exchange that leaves no doubt as to dominance.
My Father called the other night and after a moment of asking about each other’s health we launched back into our usual conversation; books, history, politics, philosophy. Speaking with him is like having a talk with myself if I were twenty years older and halfway through, somewhere between Margaret Atwood and Cincinnatus I found myself thinking about the bull and his calves at play in the field. I stopped somewhere along the line and thanked him for what he had done for me, whatever it was and told him that he had given me the confidence to do think I could do anything with my life.
“I believe you can.” he said, and it sounded like he meant it.
Years ago, right before my Grandfather died I had made a habit of stopping by to give him a shave. He wasn’t as steady as he once was with a razor and even in his nineties he preferred to be clean shaven rather than whiskered. It was both easy and difficult at the same time, easy because we shared the same face, it’s jawline and chin so strikingly similar that I felt as if I were shaving a mirror image of my own, hard because I knew how little time was left and how much I would miss him when he was gone. And I was right, I miss him still nearly twenty years after his passing, but I also remember looking into that face as if it were my own in the mirror this morning.
I have been thinking about genetics a lot lately in both the practical and the abstract. When we bought our first four cows we knew very little about them, only that Herefords were docile in nature and that being polled there were no horns that might accidentally take out an eye or tear a hole between my ribs if I got careless. I knew enough about their ability to endure cold temperatures due to their stocky bodies and their excellent flavor in the form of steaks and ground beef. Each calving brought new variables into the herd and every Autumn we’d make the decision to cull or harvest based on the least desirable factors, keeping the calmest and fastest growing heifers as our next generation.
One of the unexpected developments was a white stripe between the shoulder blades and white socks above each hoof on the best animals, like a seal of approval. Those without tended to be the most flighty and skittish while the ones with the most prominent line backs grew quickly and were easy to handle. In less than ten years we discovered an animal uniquely suited to our style of farming and our land and even the old timers have remarked on their looks and overall health. A well integrated herd with similar genetics behaves in a way that is both dependable to the person dealing with them, but more importantly to each other. They are at ease with each other and unified in their movements from one pasture to another, always on the lookout for the safety of the herd.
We have given up on bringing in different types of cattle to add to the herd- no more Chianina or Angus, not because they don’t taste good or do well on the forage, but because they cause unrest and trouble fitting in with the herd we have. An animal that weighs upwards of a half ton is a lot of work when it is uneasy, it is a dangerous proposition when the rest of the herd excludes it and demonstrates it through their own social behaviors. I see DNA as a set of instructions that clearly outlines the operation of the vessel in which it is born, not only appearance and color, but personality and behavior across a wider spectrum. It’s as if it uses life as a means of refining it’s own coding, one generation at a time, an immortal life form reaching as far back into history as life itself.
I was driving to New London the other morning on the road that hugs the southern lake shore. It is a ride that never fails to deliver some surprise; a moose or a bobcat poking their heads out of the dense woods that line the road, rainbows arching across the surface of the lake, bicyclists and hikers, Fall foliage or ice covered branches like black lace against the sky. As I was driving a small blue truck passed me in the opposite lane and for just a second I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, smiling, his hand lifted in a wave and I recognized my oldest son in that split second on the curve and I waved in return before he disappeared in my rear-view mirror.
His face was a glimpse back in time for me, my long ago glossy dark hair fixed on his head, that same lift of hand and arm in casual greeting that we both share. When he was little and I worked in an office I would arrive home to have him challenge me on the living room floor- “You wanna wrestle? I know that you do.” and we would roll across the carpeted floor, pinning and grasping each other, flipping and pushing in a firm, but gentle replay of faux aggression until I would beg off and call him the winner. If there was any difference between that and what the bull did with the bullocks on pasture you’d be hard pressed to identify it.
The young woman who has been helping me with fence the past month or so will be leaving the farm with her fiance’ in a week and we will miss them. Yesterday afternoon she came out to help on the last section of the season and I asked her a couple of questions about DNA and genetics. She is a research scientist working with lab rats and cancer cells and what she does is far outside of my sphere. I asked her a question my son had posed about naked mole rats and their resistance to cancer and she admitted that it was outside of her knowledge set as well. She crimped the wire sleeves with a new found competence as we spoke when we passed each other moving wire up and down the fence line we exchanged a few last words.
She told me about a pregnant dog they had euthanized at her last job because they needed the fetal tissue of the puppies and looking at our pregnant Aussie I got the feeling it was one of the things that had turned her off of lab work. My children came down after they got off the school bus and told her that we would be naming one of the puppies after her beagle and she smiled at that. She told me that she had applied for work up here just to see if she could get something and that her fiance’ had as well and that getting a small farm was definitely something they were thinking about, that staying with us had changed their perspective. I told her that it was a great idea, that I was grateful for her help and that they would be missed and in the last of the fading light we completed the tensioning of the top wire to the sound of the cattle lowing in the distance.
It’s hard not to question the meaning of life when it’s all that you do every day. There are days when I wonder why we are doing what we do, if it isn’t foolish to spend our lives and our efforts doing something that can be done much more efficiently on a larger scale using industrial methods and robotics and that maybe we made the wrong decision. Those thoughts are usually on bad days and thankfully there aren’t many of them. For the most part I am fairly certain that anything else would have been a mistake, that we were meant for this on a level that was genetic.
That what we were giving our children was something far more important than anything money could buy and that the payback is equally profound. The food we eat, the air we breathe, the sleep we earn is the fuel that propels that secret living code written in our genes one generation further in its travel through time and that in a way we’re just hitchhiking, going along for the ride. The longer I live the more I realize that things we think are unique about us are really just borrowed bits from the ones before, a shared operating system that gets passed with a wave from father to son, like on that road the other morning where you catch a glimpse of yourself moving past. Maybe one day my grandson, if I am lucky enough to have one, will shave my face when I can’t do it any longer and it will be as easy for him as it was for me because our faces will be just that much alike, separated by three quarters of a century or more.
Chickens and turkeys while Paris burns and Europe begins its collapse? bad timing …. lol
It’s not over until the banks sing (in B-flat).
We are all animals and share 97% of our DNA – read that somewhere. Thus the similarity of behavior.
Stucky, you need to read a bit deeper than chickens and turkeys. The parable of the grasshopper and the ants wasn’t really about grasshoppers and ants.
And I would bet you that both grocery stores and restaurants will be open for le bizness in gay Paree ce soir.
Stucky, let me be the first to say it. I have zero sympathy for the french. They have allowed their government to open their country to unlimited muslim invasion. You reap what you sow. This is what muslims do. In every place that has muslims. Read jim’s churchhill quote. Hollande was elected. They have a new election coming up. The french better get serious. Bad choices lead to bad outcomed, every time.
Nice comeback, HSF. I was thinking that, but didn’t know when you wrote it, so i wrote the mush above.
“Stucky, you need to read a bit deeper than chickens and turkeys.” ——– HF
OK … I’ll admit … I only read the first paragraph! lol
I’ll read it later. About half an hour ago we got a call from our Realtor to let us know someone else is coming TODAY, at 3PM. AAAARRRRGH!!!! The house ain’t “ready” to show … I still have to go to the outdoor farmer’s market (last day is today) …. and my parents need groceries. I’m STRESSED OUT, man!! And here I am typing my stupid fuckin thoughts on a ‘puter. Waz wrong wif me??
I guess the offer we do have isn’t final until after the “attorney review” is complete on Monday. The people coming know that there’s a valid offer …. so our Realtor is hoping for a “bidding war”. Smart feller, and devious. lol
Peace, Out.
Thanks, HSF. Love your writing and wisdom!
“The longer I live the more I realize that things we think are unique about us are really just borrowed bits from the ones before, a shared operating system that gets passed with a wave from father to son…”
Thoughts like this one always make me want to go back as far as reason and imagination will take me. Thousands and thousands of generations of mankind have ever expanded the foundation of all humanity, but at one point a transition was made. Logic dictates that there was one first sentient (conscious, self-aware, fill in you own word) thought, the very first on the planet, maybe even in the entire universe. The how and when of it is pure speculation, the why an unanswerable question (but one always worth pondering), but reading this just made me think about the FACT of it. It did happen, and that is the most basic foundation for everything that humanity has done over the tiny amount (cosmically speaking) it has existed. All art, literature, music, philosophy, science…everything began with the tiny foundation of a single conscious thought. Think of it another way…the dinosaurs roamed this earth for hundreds of millions of years and there never was one.
“It’s hard not to question the meaning of life when it’s all that you do every day.”
Such, it would appear is our lot in life. Would you have it any other way?
PS – On a personal note, from everything I know about you, I believe the life you lead is a meaningful as any I know of, and far more so than that of any rich and powerful, “important” people.
Thank you for sharing it with us.
HSF,
Your stories are lovely.
OMG the analogy of mixing races and religions and the outcome there of explained by using cows.
This is brilliant. Should be a meme.
Thank you HSF.
Always enjoy your posts
Mr. Stucky,
Good luck with your home sale. It is hard work all around.
The Mr. and I got a great agent…He got our house sold, and my
Mother’s house sold. They were both listed in August 2012, and we
“early” closed (me and Mom)…no Mr./house in my name…on the same
day, using the same service, sitting together at the same table side by
side, No kidding. Oops, we closed in November 2012. Sorry, unless your
house is A++ expect to make concessions.
susanna
I’ve been enjoying your posts, and you are a fine addition to TBP family.
BUT …. you may call me just “Stucky”, without the “Mr.” — it makes me feel old. lol
oh … and … we dropped the price $10k, and that will be the FINAL and only concession we make. The house is truly in “move in” condition”
Just marvelous. Once again. And eloquent.
I’ve heard that ‘the apple does not fall far from the tree’. I suspect that our outer features are also similar to our parents’ below the skin. Our brains must function in similar ways as our parent’s brains and our muscles and joints coordinate likewise.
A bear must shit in the woods and fertilize the forest. A salmon is born to run with the pack up the river. We don’t know our purpose in the grand scheme but we know our impulse and the need to find our place. Those that have no place because they were forcibly transplanted will low forever and bleat like sheep separated from the shepherd.
You might try to breed them into the main herd but the result will be less than optimum, like breeding a doberman with a poodle trying to get a smart guard dog.
HSF, a wonderful article about chickens and turkeys.
I think I mentioned that my father wrote folksy columns for the local weekly paper for 30 years (or more) and cattle were often featured, though rarely bulls. He did write one article about a bull he’d purchased when I was around 10. The bull was not playing at being dominant; he would charge whomever entered the barnyard and since the berry picking field was across the barnyard, my sister and I had to calculate just how fast we could make it from the entry gate the football length to the exit gate by the corn field and berry vines. (The berry vines were our means of earning dollars, since the tame blackberries were a favorite fruit, but hard to pick due to thorns and chiggers, so getting to the berry field was important to us.) My father would watch, amused, thinking that eventually the bull would realize that we had no interest in the cows he was so jeaulous about, but after a week or so, he realized the bull was not going to recognize his daughters as having right of passage through the barnyard.
(This is written in a column and is not from my memory… I just remember being terrified of that bull, but wanting the $5 a couple gallons of berries would earn me enough to risk it.)
One day, Dad told us he would put a stop to it that day. He said that the it was fine that the bull wanted to assert his authority over the cows, but there had to be a line drawn in order to be able to trust that the bull would not hurt us or him. He went with us to the gate and instead of us climbing over for the run to the field gate, he unlatched the gate and opened it. In one hand he carried a board that he wrote was “4 feet of solid oak that could convince the bull just who was in charge.” He told my sister and I to stand still and watch. He took bold confident strides to where the bull was stamping his feet and snorting, perhaps trying to decide whether to run at us or at him. When he was a little more than arms length away, he swung that 2 x 4 Oak Board over his shoulder and brought it down with a solid THWACK in the middle of the bull’s forehead. The bull dropped to his knees and then tried to get up, staggering a bit as he made his way back into the barn’s walkthrough, where the cows were gathered in the shade to protect them from the July heat.
My father came out with us the next morning, but it was not necessary. The bull, when he saw us, joined the cows in the walkthrough. My sister and I were royalty to him.
My father liked to state the obvious and make a political comment with his stories. On this one, he suggested that if everyone were to Whack their Congressmen on the heads like that, perhaps something worthwhile could be done in the Nation’s Capital. And, if not, at least the posturing might come to an end.
HSF, I love your prose as it always leads to a “Truth”. Surely, you will publish your vignettes some point?
Perhaps as a retirement policy? If, in fact, you ever retire! LOL!
Our Country will be in trouble if we allow the Angus into our “herd” . Of course, we are a country of immigrants (excepting the Native Americans, which we have treated poorly): Most of us are European-Americans or African-Americans. We have assimilated Asians and other ethnic groups without a great deal of difficulty. Only asking that they accept our laws and live in peace
However, the new immigrants from the middle east ,do not want to assimilate.They want to change everything that we hold near and dear as Americans. They have 57 Islamic countries ( according to our esteemed President) in which to practice their
form of “Religion”. But, they want us to change!!
The happenings in Paris are coming here!! We need to keep the “Angus” from our herd!!
HSF,
Your mention of your cattle’s DNA and having Aussie dogs set my mind to thinking. My own dog, who is half Aussie, has some recent wolf/canis lupus blood in the mix. He is a big beautiful animal, loves people, is gentle with kids and is all business when we go to the farm. I have never seen him get aggressive with another dog until yesterday. Usually he just backs away from the little yappers and snappers. However, yesterday he’d had enough with his tormentor and instantly had it down, throat exposed and submissive. So I am wondering when the civilized folks in Sweden and Germany and the other Euroland countries will discover their inner DNA and deal with their current tormentors.
HSF that Shakespeare quote says volumes to all of us.
nice Sunday morning read HSF…..we’re all connected to our tribe by genetics , which in turn should bond us to tribal traditions both morally and spiritually, but allowing outside radical influence to break those bonds via forced multicultural diversion is tantamount to murdering one’s own heritage which those who came before sacrificed so much blood and treasure to secure.
I’m sharing this here in case Admin doesn’t think it post-worthy (I sent it email, but it is just a pretty picture.) I’m using the In Our Stars title as a good excuse to post this photo of the Northern Lights by Ronald Smith. My AF buddy sent it to me this morning.
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I was going to caption it “There is more in our stars than DNA.”
Just beautiful.
I think it was Jesus that implied that we are more alike than different. The fact that we dwell on our differences is the bane of our existence. People who foment troubles often prey upon our differences.
Has man’s hubris has brought him to the brink of destruction? I often think of man, not as a creator, but as a meddler in the nature of things expressing his most base emotions and desires for power and control. Paris and Mizzou , I think amply demonstrates this.
That women professor at Mizzou in the news issuing edicts at the film crew as if she was the ‘king of the world’. What hubris.
As Bob Hoye says, “What we need is a bull market in common sense.”
Why haven’t we bombed the Daesh capital. Somebody has the right concept, we should use peaceful means to solve problems. However he does not understand this only happens between people of good will. So ISIS interprets the non military action as weakness and use it to strengthen themselves. To essentially blame France and Belgium is far off. For instance, we supply arms to the Middle East. We also supply arms to Japan. What cause one to use them to destroy themselves and others, and Japan has only used them for defense. I think it has the most to do with the mindset of the people, not the US’s and the West’s problem.
I enjoyed yer article Hardscramble, but then I read Maggie’s dipshitted mentally perturbed retardation and i had ter take uh break and wipe the gawd dammed vomit off mah thinkpad. Good gawd Maggie, come out and just ask fer it so we can all quit stressin. Will you pretty please put one uh her long ass posts up fer the big time. Maggie belongs on Lee Rockwell ever bit as much as yer pockmarked lackey
Billah’s wife Policing the blog again. I just wonder why you have this burning desire to police this blog? Also I’m puzzled why Admin never steps on your ass? Billahs wife fuck you! Post something besides a police action, your actions are beyond obvious to anyone with a brain!
I send a shout out to all that post here, let’s send a message to Billahs wife that we don’t need “it’s” stupid fucking commentary policing this blog, this is a free speech zone. Yes I bust on Westcoaster but I always log in and am willing to defend my position as I post original content as well. Has Billahs wife ever one time posted anything other than an attempt to police this blog? Answer is NO.
Tell you what Billahs wife why don’t you take me on? I guarantee you Admin will run one off us off. I will answer everyone of your posts with the most vile crap a human being can imagine! I say again Fuck You I’ve had enough. You don’t need you policing this blog!
We don’t need you policing this blog
To whom it may concern, I’ve declared war on Billahs Wife, get ready for a massive barrage of vile photographs and ungodly commentary that would make Satan himself bow his head.
Maggie Your post is very nice!! I appreciate you!
Billahs Wife is a fucking coward! Pops that fucking loud mouth off with no ass to back it up. You are the most disgusting example of a human being, a lowlife piece of shit that hides in the shadows. Fuck up straight up your ass. I’m begging you please come at me, leave Maggie alone, attack me, please bitch, please!!!!!!!!!!!
Cowards hiding, well maybe tomorrow, stay tuned!
Billahs Wife, I never sleep you fucking low life cocksucker. Direct you low IQ antics at my ass, the mental gymnastics I will put your poor fucking mind through will have you thrashing at the very ground you stand on! You’ve entered the Church of a poisoned mind! I’ll thrust my right hand straight up your ass and pull back a hand full of guts while I laugh in your face. Let’s dance bitch, police my comments! Please, bitch please. Either bring your A game or shut the fuck up!!!
Billahs wife is obviously a loud mouth CUNT,
Billah the bitch, do you deal in black money? Really, you are a fucking punk ass joke!
@Sensetti… Thanks for the support. I thought I was being paranoid in believing that I seem to bring out the worst in whomever has this split personality problem. I’m a bit sick of it too, but have finally learned to just skip the comments entirely when certain monikers precede a comment. Of course, having been an editor for most of my life, I also recognize wording patterns, so even a dopple (see, I know what that is now!) doesn’t fool me for long.
Sensetti
Did you run out of beefeaters and have ter drink the rubbing alcohol yer boyfriend uses ter treat yer genital warts instead? Cuz yer obviously somewhere beyond yer normal happy drunk self. I’m goin ter down thumb all yer posts from now on yew rotten bastard.
And Maggie, please, I’m tryin ter git yer posts some recognition they deserve. Stop badmouthing me all the time. And now look what y’all did did Hardscrambles work, that’s bullshit. Haven’t you ever looked in the face of a dog and found compassion?
HSF,
Good post.
I have to confess, your posts have caused me to become more introspective… to observe the world around me more closely. To appreciate things a bit more.
I miss Daddy… it’s been a year since he passed on, but still…
Hunting season opened last weekend… I was struck by the similarities between hunting deer and hunting men…
In position well before dawn. Camouflaged. You set your ambush. Trying to look like anything but a man with a rifle, intent on mayhem – trying to do your best impression of a rock.
No unnecessary movement. No talking. No smoking. No light sources. Your eyesight and hearing hyper-aware. Noting the direction of the wind and knowing anything in front of you can’t smell you.
Being pissed off at the Blue-jay that’s in the tree directly above you – he’s crabbing about you being there and won’t leave, despite you being there first. And knowing that your quarry knows that sound and will make note of it as much as you took note of the wind – this is his house, not yours.
Using other sounds – a gust of wind rattling the leaves or a passing airplane – to cover your own movements. If you have to move anywhere, you switch up your steps: three steps. Pause. Then four. Pause. Then six steps – two short, four long. Pause. Then five. Trying to sound like anything but a hairless ape walking around, looking for trouble. Ranging what’s in front of you, trying to remember the trajectory of the rounds you’re using and where the round will strike given your present zero if the deer are at “X” range…
Still, they buffalo you. They move just inside the treeline, denying you a clean shot. If they show themselves, one shows up – usually a small doe. Almost like they nominate the smallest of the bunch to stand out there and be a bullet magnet – just to see if you’ll shoot. The doe sniffs, blows, stamps her foot then whirls to run off – then stops dead and looks behind her to see if anything is moving. Smart. But your patience pays off. Ten minutes after the sacrificial doe shows herself, the rest start showing up. All does. Again, smart. The buck’s out there, somewhere, and he’s using his harem to run interference. You’ve seen him over the past few months. He’s not a record buck, but he’s big. They don’t get that big by being stupid.
The does start moving off. They’re at 300 meters. Now 400. They’re oblivious to you. You have a choice: Shoot the biggest of the does and, if you’re fast enough, the next biggest one. You’ll have enough meat to last a couple months and enough buckskin. But that buck will get away. Again.
Fuck it. Meat in the freezer is better than a head on a wall… you put the crosshairs almost at the top of the does’ back. The bullet will drop into the sweet spot just behind the shoulder. Breathe… in, out, in, out… hold…
And the world hold’s it’s breath….
Billahs wife
What happened to your cute little dialect. Does anybody remember when you showed up or where your name comes from? You show up out of the blue posing as the wife of Billy and start policing his comments. Fuck you, we don’t need you policing this blog. How the Fuck is that your job?
Billahs wife let me give you some advice. If I was you, I would change characters related to the fact that cute little dialect you paint yourself with will take way to much effort if you want to cross swords with me?
Sensetti,
Yer unhinged. Yer liver must be about ter go out, er maybe the foamy rash on yer RANK ANUS has taken over yer tiny ass brain, and yer like an anus zombie lookin fer more bull shit ter devour. I don’t know.
What I do know is that yer not scary, and if this was real life I’d be givin you a major wedgie right now.
I kicked yer anus sideways Sensetti.
Billy, your a regular Jack London. Your stories are riveting adventures. Keep up the good work.