It’s a small lot on our farm, with white and red tin siding that many people overlook. It’s right next to the voluminous silver towers of our mill. It’s a place where many lessons are learned and see many “joys and discomforts” of agricultural life all throughout the year. Starting in the middle of December all the way to the beginning of July is where I get to watch my project grow and develop. As soon as the herd sees me stumbling down the hill, they race to the gate and acknowledge me with bellers.
Many of them fight to the front with their broad shoulders, as soon and I step foot in the big open doorway, || then smell of fresh bedding and manure fills the air. There are green gates hanging up on the side of the barn to my right and cornstalk bales right in front of me. The first two lots are filled with many personalities to my right. I see rodeo bulls who are bucking and kicking up straw, but are very small. Then there are the soft and gentle giants who are the biggest ones of the crowd standing wherever they p. I pet the bulky white one who always has his big giraffe tongue out to lick me.
I make my way over to the third lot, and thats when I get the glares. They are usually in the way back when they see me coming, crowded by the water tank. But today they are laying down on their fresh yellow bedding, trying and not make eye contact. They have their dark blue dinghy rope halters on that dad put on previously that week. When they finally look at me, I can tell that they hate it with their scowls. I climb up over the rusted chipped yellow fence with ease. They all race up, with their roly-poly bodies and head toward the back of the lot, so I can’t clasp their rope dangling by the side of their ‘noses.
I finally catch by best admirable steer, with rope burns and calluses that went with him charging away from me while I still was holding on. He’s the shortest, but has a lot of character. He’s has shoulders that every football player wants, he has a back flat as a board, and his neck is so thick that he has 28 rolls. When I walk him he plants his feet to the concrete. I give him a stern look while my entire body is at a slanted angle that I literally look like a backslash. He gives a big snort and splashes me with his slobber, then finally gives in and takes a step.
When I finally secure him to the other yellow gate, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and turn around and see my curious fan section from the other lot. I grab the pink brush and the blue and gray curry comb from the dark green tub, to groom my prized beast. As| brush the dead hair off his back I see him trusting me with every stroke. I then grab the long snake like hose to give him a bath. With no clouds in sight he doesn’t mind being cooled off today by the splattering nozzle. I grab the curry comb again and brush away any excess water in his hair splattering on the ground.
The sun beaming and a light breeze blowing, it becomes his giant hair dryer, turning him into a fluffy black and white marshmallow. After he’s all dried off and glistening I walk him around the old concrete lot. Making many laps around I can tell he’s getting tired and hungry by how slow his gait is. Working with the 1600 lbs animal for two hours, I am feeling the same thing. I walk him over to his feed and water but he doesn’t drink. He tells me in a way by not consuming his food and water that he wants me to leave.
I tie him to the rusted yellow gate to brush him once more. I then hear my dad’s deep loud voice, talking about my steer l’ve just polished and dolled up. My dad asks truckers and neighbors for their opinions on my steer. He reassures their opinions by describing every little detail of his body, to get the point of across that I have a real prize winner. With the men agreeing with my dad and nodding at everything he says, I look down and smile at my steer. He looks back at me with his big, dark brown, bug eyes. He has no idea what’s going on or what he’s in for.
He’s the most innocent at th oint and doesn’t realize how great he is, and he never will. I scratch his head with white hairs sticking to my fingers, he then kisses me leaving slobber all over my clothes and arms. He’s fighting the gate, and trying to break free from his brittle halter. I untie him and he trots over to his friends by their food over in the red copper bin. After devouring his meal he looks over at me for a minute and continues. I smile and climb over the fence putting the brushes away in the tub. I then hangout by the other two lots giving the others some attention.
They still fight each other like small puppies begging for a person’s love and affection. I try and pet them all but majority of them are at the halfway point of trusting me and not trusting me at all. I think about the hard work and time that goes into working with my steers year after year. I think about if things fail one year, you go the next year and try again. I tell myself this is the year I will bring home a green and gold trophy with a purple banner. I then turn and stumble back up the freshly mowed hill to our 3rd generation farm house and look forward to doing it all over again tomorrow.
