First and foremost, Happy Birthday to Paintsmh, our especially wonderful Lizzie person! Yay, Liz, have a great one kiddo!
This one is from '06
Getting ready for the fair in some ways resembles a landslide on a jagged mountainside. It starts with a single pebble click, click, clicking as it falls. It is hard to believe that it will soon obliterate every other aspect of farm life, taking on the semblance of an all-consuming pile of quicksand.
The earliest event in the fair-ward journey is no more earth shaking than that first pebble. While we are milking, someone asks, “Which do you think looks better, Medina or Mendocino?”
A discussion of the relative merits of two calves begins. It is not too heated as it is long before the fair; no one needs to decide anything. Yet.
A totally irrelevant picture
Then as the weeks roll by the rumbling of the avalanche grows ever louder as fair preparations threaten to take over our lives.
The trucker must be called and decorations planned, purchased and assembled. Once chosen, calves must be trained to lead, bathed and clipped. Oh, and hopefully registered in time for the papers to be back before the show. In the case of Mendocino, who was selected over Medina based on pedigree (daughter of Fustead Emory Blitz, bovine equivalent of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp rolled into one), greater height and sharpness, wider chest floor and the all-important fact that her mother is Lizzie’s favorite show cow, bathing takes on epic magnitude.
She is nearly pure white, not an auspicious color for a show calf. And not to put too fine a point on it, she is a hawg. Show her something brown and she will lie in it. She will dabble her tail in it too and paint her sides as far north as it will reach. (Of course she has a long tail.) If she can’t find something brown to lie in, she is a determined do it yourselfer. So every day, I say to the calf washer, “Throw that Blitz on the wash rack and let her soak while you’re clipping the other calves. And give her some bedding for Pete’s sake.”
This is futile as she eats any and all bedding, then looks around for more.
There is an intense competition between proponents of the little brown cow and fans of the big black and white ones here at Northview too. And of course sibling rivalry must contribute to the thunder of the developing landslide. Thus Alan snidely calls to Liz as she scrubs on Hazel, this year’s Jersey junior heifer calf, “Rub harder, maybe you can get all that brown off.”
He also takes me aside and suggests (quite loudly of course), “I know just what to do for Liz for Christmas this year. We’ll get some black and white paint and paint all her Jerseys. Then at least they will look like real cows instead of pasture lice.”
I shake my head and wonder at the wisdom of a lad who insults his sister’s favorite cattle while she has a fully charged water hose in her hand. Especially in light of the fact that the fair starts next week and she has a driver’s license and he doesn’t.
Ah well, as the number of days between now and truck-in day decrease, the spirit of cooperation increases, out of dire necessity if nothing else. There had been a vociferous battle, with many verbal stones thrown, over whether Alan’s two-year-old heifer, Bayberry, would go to the show or not. Like many boys he has sometimes used the necessity for him to go to the fair to care for his critters as an excuse to hit the midway with his buddies. This leaves big sister with his cow to work with along with her own. Not a popular phenomenon. Threats and imprecations are uttered on this topic.
Then terrible weather intervenes. There is no way Alan can go to the fair every day to pamper a cow. He can get over there for show night but otherwise he is needed at home to make hay. If the sun shines.
His sister has the choice of taking Bay herself or not having enough milking entries to qualify for Premier Exhibitor or Master Breeder.
Bayberry is going. Liz even rubs liniment on her sore stifle every day. (Poor thing slipped and fell a couple of weeks ago.)
As fair time approaches even the house begins to show the effects of the uproar. There are artificial maple leaves, fake wheat and a bunch of other funky stuff sticking up out of the mismatched sock basket and surging up from the cushions of the couch as if growing there. A crisis emerges when it is noticed that the stall sign for Liz’s Jersey aged cow, Dreamroad Extreme Heather, reads Dreamroad Extreme Heater. However appropriate that might be this summer it must be changed.
Of course an ever-helpful sibling suggests taking off both “H’s” and calling her Dreamroad Extreme Eater.
At least this year Liz is clipping at home, where it is quiet and the electrical outlets work. She was raving today about how nice it is to have the calves all done except for their ears (had to make a trip to town to get new ear clippers yesterday). I point out that I have been suggesting that she do them at home for at least ten years now. She doesn’t want to hear it.
A new dilemma arises. It has rained three days out of the last week. The oats that have been carefully saved in the field to provide bedding for fair stalls are still standing. It is too wet to mow, let alone bale them. Ditto the special second cutting field set aside for show cows. And the first cutting.
Frantic discussion of where enough bedding for ten head and good stuff to feed them can be found before next Monday ensues.
As piles of sand and gravel from the clattering landslide rise high enough to cover my ears, I pray for sunny days. Soon. Oh, and a little extra patience wouldn’t hurt either.
Yet another, equally irrelevant picture, taken at the same time.
*******Thankfully, our first fair isn't until August this year. Neither Bay or Heather are in the running to go. Bay's not bred and Heather lost a quarter.
As per request
****** Tomorrow I will tell you about actually getting to meet another blogger...first time ever and way too cool!
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