Fair season is different for us.
I never showed cows. I don't have fond memories of long hours practicing show circles or clipping or washing. I have memories of never-ending circles, swollen feet, and the desire for something other than fair food. I'm slightly envious of those people who think "working a fair" means sitting around staring at cow butt for three days.
We start around Wednesday if the fair starts Friday night. Earlier in the week if the fair starts Friday morning. Ted gets the tent crew together, usually Little Bobby (who isn't very little anymore) and his friends, or a couple men I know, and they spend the hot day swinging sledgehammers and pounding stakes into the ground. I show up in the evening if I can to help finish up tying tent ropes and making sure all the knots are tight.
Thursday is fence. Loading fence from on trailer to another at the farm. Hauling fence to the fairgrounds. Taking the fence off, fighting with Ted over which animals are going where, which fence is holding who, how much room to leave, where feeders will go, what we want to double-fence, and just how we think the public will move through. Fence that was light and easy to throw at 8:30 in the morning feels quite a bit heavier at 2:30 in the afternoon. We find a place to park the house trailer, try to figure out where we'll put the horse trailer, and head home praying we'll sleep well.
Friday comes earlier for me than Ted. I have a last-minute trip to the grocery store to make sure we have milk and eggs and enough food to feed the weekend crews. Cases of water. More Gatorade than the state of Florida drinks in July. Paper plates; I always need more paper plates...
It takes at least two trailer-loads, one extra girl, Ted, and me to get our animals to the fairs. Our first load contains sheep and goats, llamas, and the camel. It's a process that involves a lot of backing the trailer up into the barnyard, hoping Ted doesn't hit the barn (again), and chasing animals that would probably much rather stay home sometimes. Jimmy-Joe, ponies, and the cows make up the second trip. Sometimes the cows get loose.
Then we have to hang water buckets. Post signs. Keep the pens clean. Brush and saddle ponies. Make sure all fences are connected. Get the cash register set. Clean up. Get any kids that are working to the fair...
Then before I realize it, it's 6:00 and the work really begins...
Showing posts with label Ted. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ted. Show all posts
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Rain
Rain… is a good thing.
There’s a song out now by Luke Bryan that says just that. He’s right.
When the hay needs water, when the cornfields are parched, and when the pond can barely sustain the frogs, let alone the fish, rain is a good thing.
We don’t grow plants on the farm- another good thing, since I have the complete opposite of a “green thumb”- but we still take advantage of dreary days. Ted bunkers down inside, making pots of soup, mending saddles, and catching up on Fox News. He and Mary bicker. I run errands.
When it’s nice outside I have cleaning to do. There are stalls to be cleaned, ponies to be groomed, and llamas to work with. I’m constantly adding to the ever-expanding manure pile. Ted moves fencing around, and plays on the tractor. I try to bring Billie-Jo out every couple weeks and cross-tie her in the barn, with the hope that when it comes time to have her feet done she’ll stand still long enough… and NOT kick anyone in the head. Crias need to be halter-broken, goat feet ALWAYS need to be done, and whenever I think I’ve almost caught up Ted pulls into the yard with a truck full of hay to unload.
Rainy days mean I can lounge around. The barn stays full and crowded with animals that don’t want their hair to get wet. I get to run to the feed store to pick up shavings, or to Tractor Supply to re-fill our “cookie jar,” or to the laundromat to get the horse blankets washed before the next job.
Today, it was to Mackey’s for a 50lb. bag of lime (we’ve been out for ages) and a new halter for Emerald. For the life of me, I still don’t understand why they don’t make llama halters in green. They make pony halters, horse halters, sheep halters, and even ALPACA halters in beautiful forest green, but my llama named EMERALD has to go out wearing blue.
Well, he’ll survive. Even if he is a little cranky because it’s rainy.
There’s a song out now by Luke Bryan that says just that. He’s right.
When the hay needs water, when the cornfields are parched, and when the pond can barely sustain the frogs, let alone the fish, rain is a good thing.
We don’t grow plants on the farm- another good thing, since I have the complete opposite of a “green thumb”- but we still take advantage of dreary days. Ted bunkers down inside, making pots of soup, mending saddles, and catching up on Fox News. He and Mary bicker. I run errands.
When it’s nice outside I have cleaning to do. There are stalls to be cleaned, ponies to be groomed, and llamas to work with. I’m constantly adding to the ever-expanding manure pile. Ted moves fencing around, and plays on the tractor. I try to bring Billie-Jo out every couple weeks and cross-tie her in the barn, with the hope that when it comes time to have her feet done she’ll stand still long enough… and NOT kick anyone in the head. Crias need to be halter-broken, goat feet ALWAYS need to be done, and whenever I think I’ve almost caught up Ted pulls into the yard with a truck full of hay to unload.
Rainy days mean I can lounge around. The barn stays full and crowded with animals that don’t want their hair to get wet. I get to run to the feed store to pick up shavings, or to Tractor Supply to re-fill our “cookie jar,” or to the laundromat to get the horse blankets washed before the next job.
Today, it was to Mackey’s for a 50lb. bag of lime (we’ve been out for ages) and a new halter for Emerald. For the life of me, I still don’t understand why they don’t make llama halters in green. They make pony halters, horse halters, sheep halters, and even ALPACA halters in beautiful forest green, but my llama named EMERALD has to go out wearing blue.
Well, he’ll survive. Even if he is a little cranky because it’s rainy.Thursday, April 8, 2010
Chosen
Suburban Connecticut is a far cry from the rambling ranches of Colorado and Texas. Twenty-acre plots that seem so massive here don’t dare dream of competing against the thousand-acre behemoths supporting countless head of beef cattle. We manage somehow, though.
I’ve been working for Ted for something close to ten or eleven years now. It’s my world, and my life.
I remember the first time I met him, when I was maybe fourteen years old. It was Chester Fair, I was wearing black shoes, and, God, my feet hurt at the end of it. Then, standing in front of the sheep, he handed me sixty bucks and asked if he’d see me next weekend.
If he only knew what he was getting himself into…
I was not born into the “farm life”. My family has never been concerned about acreage, fence lines, or zoning. My grandmother had horses, but growing up three thousand miles from her made them a distant idea, like space travel, or winning the lottery. I had dogs and cats when I was a child, not goats and sheep. Our dinners came plastic-wrapped from the grocery store. Hamburger had very little to do with the wide-eyed cows mooing from the side of the road as we drove past. Being a little girl, I always wanted a pony, but I had very little idea of what it meant.
I was always the animal girl. Tormenting the cat by dancing with him down the hallway. Feeding the dog table scraps and insisting she come in when it got too cold out. Laying out a blanket for said dog so she would be “extra warm”. I was the one outside in the woods catching frogs and bugs to bring inside in mayonnaise jars and Rubbermaid totes. If a stray cat showed up, it was probably my fault. I wanted ponies and cows and elephants.
Sometimes you don’t grow out of things.
I chose to be country. It wasn’t an option my suburban parents thought they were offering me. They knew I never had a problem getting dirty, but… needing muck boots because I get knee-deep in manure? Sure, I always liked the way grass smelled, but… spending so much time in the hay barn I came home reeking of it? Weren’t there other options? Wasn’t I offered the chance to become a chef? Couldn’t I become a nurse like Q or maybe an accountant?
Nope.
There’s a draw to farm life. There’s nothing more emotionally freeing than stabbing a pitchfork into a dirty stall to release anger and frustration. There’s a sense of importance when you head up the hill after a cup of coffee to hear all the critters calling to you, “Feed me! I’m hungry! I need you because I don’t have thumbs!” It makes me feel calm and content when I can sit in a clean stall and reflect on everything. I take pride in my callused hands and farmer’s tan.
I sometimes worry that because it’s a life I chose, not a life I was born into, I’m somehow missing something. Does it matter that I never had a pig named Bacon? I was never in 4H; I never showed cows. Am I less a farmer because I grew up in a home with a swing set in the backyard and not a barn?
Nah. It’s what I love, and that’s all that matters, I’m sure.
I’ve been working for Ted for something close to ten or eleven years now. It’s my world, and my life.
I remember the first time I met him, when I was maybe fourteen years old. It was Chester Fair, I was wearing black shoes, and, God, my feet hurt at the end of it. Then, standing in front of the sheep, he handed me sixty bucks and asked if he’d see me next weekend.
If he only knew what he was getting himself into…
I was not born into the “farm life”. My family has never been concerned about acreage, fence lines, or zoning. My grandmother had horses, but growing up three thousand miles from her made them a distant idea, like space travel, or winning the lottery. I had dogs and cats when I was a child, not goats and sheep. Our dinners came plastic-wrapped from the grocery store. Hamburger had very little to do with the wide-eyed cows mooing from the side of the road as we drove past. Being a little girl, I always wanted a pony, but I had very little idea of what it meant.
I was always the animal girl. Tormenting the cat by dancing with him down the hallway. Feeding the dog table scraps and insisting she come in when it got too cold out. Laying out a blanket for said dog so she would be “extra warm”. I was the one outside in the woods catching frogs and bugs to bring inside in mayonnaise jars and Rubbermaid totes. If a stray cat showed up, it was probably my fault. I wanted ponies and cows and elephants.
Sometimes you don’t grow out of things.
I chose to be country. It wasn’t an option my suburban parents thought they were offering me. They knew I never had a problem getting dirty, but… needing muck boots because I get knee-deep in manure? Sure, I always liked the way grass smelled, but… spending so much time in the hay barn I came home reeking of it? Weren’t there other options? Wasn’t I offered the chance to become a chef? Couldn’t I become a nurse like Q or maybe an accountant?
Nope.
There’s a draw to farm life. There’s nothing more emotionally freeing than stabbing a pitchfork into a dirty stall to release anger and frustration. There’s a sense of importance when you head up the hill after a cup of coffee to hear all the critters calling to you, “Feed me! I’m hungry! I need you because I don’t have thumbs!” It makes me feel calm and content when I can sit in a clean stall and reflect on everything. I take pride in my callused hands and farmer’s tan.
I sometimes worry that because it’s a life I chose, not a life I was born into, I’m somehow missing something. Does it matter that I never had a pig named Bacon? I was never in 4H; I never showed cows. Am I less a farmer because I grew up in a home with a swing set in the backyard and not a barn?
Nah. It’s what I love, and that’s all that matters, I’m sure.
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