The herd sire returnith
Although I’ve witnessed the scene several times now, the simplicity and unvarnished single-purpose of it continues to amaze me.
Dave and I met the cattle hauler at a neighboring farm late in the afternoon. The hauler had, in fact, gotten to Turnip Rock farm five or ten minutes ahead of us and had already backed the long, aluminum trailer to the cow barn. He and Josh, owner of Turnip Rock, were in the old barn coaxing my BueLingo bull, Full Throttle, away from the Jersey cows he’d been “keeping company” with since late May.
I stayed out of the bull’s line of site; I didn’t want to spook him. If you get a bull walking in the right direction, you don’t want to halt his movement for even a second.
Fortunately, both Josh and Tracy (the hauler) are experienced, and Full Throttle soon clumped heavily into the trailer.
The four-mile trip to Bull Brook Keep was uneventful and Tracy began backing the trailer to our gate. The rest of our cows, heifers, steers and calves silently watched from several hundred yards away. Their heads were up, eyes bright and ears forward.
The trailer was nearly to the gate when Full Throttle let out a loud, long trumpeting bellow: he’d gotten a whiff of the waiting herd.

The herd immediately responded to his call and came galloping across the farm. They stopped just a few yards from the trailer and waited as Tracy opened the doors and Full Throttle calmly stepped down.

The bull was immediately mobbed by the welcoming herd, and he walked through the throng.
He was home.

Growing up in New York City meant being able to speak at least two or three languages, each reflecting the mindset and philosophies of a distinct group. I spoke ‘Bronx’ of course, Puerto Rican Spanish and spanglish (mix of English and Spanish), Bronx High School of Science Yidlish (Jewish expressions and inflections mixed with English), and a bit of Italish (Italian expressions mixed into the English). My brother, who was a little kid when we moved into an mostly Italian neighborhood, is much more fluent in Italish. He took to the inflections like a duck to water.
When I first landed in the Upper Midwest – for my job as a TV/radio reporter at a CBS affiliate on the shores of Lake Superior – I found myself in a new linguistic stew. At first, I didn’t know what to think of the “Ya, you betcha,” and the “Uh, ya.” I mean, were they putting me on?
And of course, the rhythm of the day in Duluth, Minnesota was nothing like Manhattan. People were at their desks at 7:30AM. (In NYC, I wouldn’t dare make a call to an office before 9:00.) And my job as a cub reporter was made all the more frustrating when I learned that everybody left their offices at noon. How did you run a city when everyone abandoned business for an hour? This brings me to the language issue. Everyone wasn’t out for lunch, they were out for “dinner.”
What?
I’ve come to understand that this is a hold-over from farming. Even today, in my farming community in western Wisconsin, the mid-day meal is still often called “dinner” and the evening meal referred to as “supper.” Because of the influx of city people, and even more because of the passing of generations, people around here may use both terms in the same sentence to make sure we understand one another.
Fortunately, breakfast is breakfast.
If this was just a matter of learning new terms and labels, I’d shrug and get on with it. But it’s not. As in any culture, terms and phrases emerge for a reason. Take “dinner” for instance.

Although Dave and I have been farming for five years now, I’ve been at it full time for only few months. I recently closed a 42-year career in public relations where I spent my days in an office. As with many who work at desk jobs in large cities, I lunched on tuna sandwiches, salmon salads, or lovely plates of goat cheese with apples and caramelized pecans. I ate light because I needed to stay awake at my computer and phone for the rest of the afternoon. And breakfast? Well, I usually skipped that altogether. Like most urbanites I ate my big meal in the evening, at dinner.
Things are very different now. I work outside with beef cattle and free-range chickens, I drive tractors and skid steers. I walk – or rather high-step – through hip-high grass and over uneven fields as I set up pasture fences for my grass-fed herd. It takes a lot of work and energy to sustainably manage and improve Bull Brook Keep, and so I eat lots more.
Eating like a 19-year old boy is definitely one of the benefits of farming. But a light bulb came on just two weeks ago: when I eat is just as important as what and how much.
What happened was that I found myself getting horribly tired over the course of the day. It felt awful. I’d only perk up after a burger, steak or chicken meal at 6 PM. When I mentioned this to Dave his response was immediate: protein. I wasn’t getting enough of it early enough in the day.
Duh.
I’m now in the process of re-educating my head and my stomach. I’ve got to eat a decent breakfast and I’ve got to have my big meal six hours earlier than I’ve been used to.
So today, it’ll be chicken fajitas with all the fixings, a big salad and dessert (bread pudding). Today, we’ll have dinner for lunch.

Sylvia

What: Deep Roots Radio interview with Cody Holmes
When: Saturday, July 19, 2014, 9:00-9:30 AM Central Time
Where: Broadcast and streamed live on WPCA Radio, 93.1FM, http://www.wpcaradio.org

I was lucky. It was a cold early December afternoon, and Cody Holmes was at the front of the room. There were about 70 of us in that St. Paul, Minnesota hotel meeting space; men and women from all across the country, Canada, Mexico and Europe. We sat behind long tables, our legs stretched in front of us, and our attention intent on Cody – one of the top grazing gurus in the US today.
Cody and his wife Dawnnell operate Rockin H Ranch in Norwood, Missouri where they use sustainable practices to raise and graze about 1,000 head each of cattle, sheep, and meat goats. They pasture pigs and chicken, milk cows and goats for making cheese, and they sell eggs. Cody is also the author of Ranching Full Time on 3 Hours a Day.
On that cold afternoon, Cody described and showed us photos that illustrate how pastures spring to life when cattle are grazed appropriately. He talked about moving the cattle from one field to the next – rotating them – and about clustering them tightly – mobbing – so that hoof action pulls dormant seeds to the surface and natural fertilizer is distributed as the cattle dine.
That was in 2009. Since then, my husband Dave and I have implemented rotational grazing on our farm, Bull Brook Keep, and we’ve already begun to see the benefits. There’s more grass, more diverse plant life, the cattle are fat and happy, and we have repeat customers for our 100% grass-fed beef.
We realize there’s a lot more to do to improve our soil and reinforce cattle health. For example, we’ve just added chickens to our rotational mix. I look forward to tomorrow’s chat with Cody; to tap his decades of experience. I hope you’ll tune in as Cody Holmes shares insights with us.
Sylvia

June 26, 2014

I just stood there. I stared at the full 150-gallon water trough and wondered, “How am I going to move that thing 300 feet to the next paddock for my thirsty cows?”

An experienced farmer would have looked at the situation and immediately pulled from years of similar challenges to come up with three or four possible approaches. A much younger – and stronger – farmer would have applied brawn as well as brain to implement a solution.

But I am neither deeply experienced nor young and strong. I am, like so many new farmers across the US, over the age of 50 and coming to this new career after decades in a very different profession. I was pretty good in my old job, but farming presents tangles and hurdles at every turn. As a sustainable, grass-fed beef farmer, I’ve also taken on the challenge of building a healthy and happy beef herd without the use of grain, growth hormones and sub-therapeutic antibiotics. I’m committed to a tiny hoof print (c).

I’ve come to realize that my most frustrating situations are the physical ones – lifting 50 lb. blocks of salt, 50 lb. bags of alfalfa, and attaching implements to the tractor – things I have to do several times a day. Sometimes I find myself standing still, barely breathing, with my hands in fists at my sides, wondering how to even begin thinking about the problem of the moment.

This morning, my friend Kay posted a poem that helped. (By the way, Kay is a Kentucky cattlewoman, and a new farmer after a full career as a Naval officer.)

Real Work
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
And that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
Wendell Berry

And so I’m working. That’s good. I figured out how to move the trough to the herd. Now we can all breathe easier.

Sylvia