Friday 19 August 2005

At suppertime yesterday, Scott announces he's going to drive up to the north pasture to check on the cattle there, and I invite myself along. I enjoy these rides beneath the big sky in the old truck, as we rattle and bump slowly over the rough pastures and the trails that cross them.

Scott is in his glory with someone to tell things to, remarking on the condition of the fields, the (“$!*?%#!”) millet that has found its way into the crop, and various other aspects of his work, things I have never thought of. There's more to it than sticking seeds in the ground and taking a crop off. It’s obvious that he knows his business, and I think, “There is a lot to farming; the dumb farmer reputation is ridiculous.”

When we see the cattle and he calls, they begin to come toward us. We drive to the herd and stop the truck, and Scott gets out and walks among them, making sure there are no injuries or illnesses, that all is as it should be. He greets individual cows and calves fondly, says a few words to me about this or that one. I can see that he enjoys these lumbering beasts and feels an affection for them.

We linger there while he counts them; it takes a while, because they mill around the truck, sticking their noses on the front grill, watching us with their thick-lashed, soft brown eyes. When we finally drive on, they follow the vehicle. Scott says with a smile, “What do we need a herding dog for, with cattle like this?”

Along the fenceline there has been a lot of wildlife traffic. He points out the many patches of bent grass. Some kind of animal has been bedding down there, he tells me, and something’s been digging in an anthill. A bear? He stops the truck to have a closer look and to check the electric fence. It’s working well, so the bear, if that’s what it is, will stay outside it.

Behind us, we can hear the quiet thunder of hooves as the cattle make their way toward the truck. He counts them once more as they get close and then, since there are only 40 and he thinks there should be a few more, he gets up into the truck box and counts again.

When we’re ready to leave, the motor won’t start. He tries several times, but no luck. Up comes the hood and he fiddles with the carbureter. I get out, button up my jean jacket, walk around the truck, stand by helplessly. He has begun to curse; they have just done repairs on the old beater. Fortunately, I brought the cellphone so the kids could reach us. He suggests I call his dad to come and pick us up. Unfortunately, a recording comes on and tells me we have no pre-paid minutes left to use. The phone is useless. We shake our heads in disgust.

We push the truck a little ways; it still won’t start. It would be a couple miles to walk, at least, to a phone. But I think, several times, “He’ll get it started.” And he does. That's my farmbeau. I have to jump up onto the front bumper and lean over the hot engine, worried about falling onto it as I fasten the lid of the carburetor back on while he keeps the motor running from inside the cab. Finally, and with two big sighs of relief, away we go.