Dad and his beloved Farmall 450 about 1960
I idolized my father when I was a child. Most boys do; I
think it’s natural. “Daddy” is a boy’s first impression of what a man is. We
all grow out of it, though—some of us through the natural process of growing
up, and sadly, some through dreadful disappointments. Looking back down the
trail, I’m genuinely glad I came to accept my father as a real person rather
than a hero simply through growing up, rather than any other way.
When I was a little guy, I thought Dad was a giant of a man.
He knew everything; he could do anything. It never dawned on me that he was
physically smaller than a lot of men. My mind did not accept what my eyes
saw—no judgment here, just a boy’s view of his father. It wasn’t until I left
home and returned months later for a visit that the reality of Dad’s physical
stature struck me. Standing in the kitchen talking to him, I realized for the
first time that he wasn’t a physical giant. It didn’t really change my
perception of him; I just accepted that he wasn’t tall. I still idolized him.
My understanding that Dad didn’t know everything came more
slowly and over a much longer span of years. My first glimpse of this—and maybe
the first time my sense of self-preservation kicked in—happened when I wanted
to learn how to box. For some foolish reason around age twelve, I decided I
wanted to be a boxer. I was an average-height kid, but I was strong in that way
farm boys are strong: summers spent bucking hay bales, and winters chopping
wood and wrestling feed bags. Dad was going to teach me.
Before we started, my natural curiosity prompted me to ask
Dad if he had ever boxed. He told me he’d boxed in college. When I asked how he
did, he admitted he got knocked out in the first round of his only fight—it
turned out he had a “glass jaw”! My interest in boxing vanished precisely at
that moment. Dad didn’t know everything, after all.
Realizing that much of Dad’s certainty didn't always come
from innate knowledge or deep experience took even longer, revealing itself
through small insights over time. Dad and I were both in the beef cattle
business, though in differing capacities and at very different times in our
lives. When we were kids in 4-H, Dad taught us his way of halter-breaking show
calves. We’d spend a frustrating half-hour trying to corner a calf in a box
stall to put the halter on, then fight with them as we dragged them around the
barnyard. Eventually, the calves learned to lead, but it was hard, painful, and
frustrating. Yet, it was Dad’s way, so it had to be right.
About twenty years after I left home—and ten years after Dad
retired—I had the opportunity to halter-break a pair of calves for some
friends. They didn’t have a stall barn or a fenced barnyard, so I needed a new
approach. Using pipe gates, I built a 12x12 stall in the corner of a garage. We
caught the calves in the headgate, put two halters on them, and "led"
them to the garage (if leading includes dragging, dodging, and being dragged).
My nebulous plan was to hand-feed and water them while tied, giving them a
chance to get used to humans without the drama and trauma of our childhood
methods.
After a few days of hand-feeding, I placed a water tub at
the back of the stall. I would untie each calf, lead it to the water, and tie
it back up. Once both were watered, I’d clean the stall, put fresh straw down,
fill the manger with hay, and set out their grain. Then I’d untie them and lead
them to the grain. As they grew comfortable, I moved the water tub further
away—first to the space behind the stall, then to the far end of the
garage—gradually increasing the distance they had to follow me. Within a few
days, I had gained their trust so completely that I could lead them outside. No
muss, no fuss, no adrenaline rush-a whole lot easier on both the cows and the
cowboy. I used this method several times over the years, and it always worked.
It was hard to accept that Dad might have been wrong, but my
new way was undeniably easier than the way he taught us.
Dad was a total, dyed-in-the-wool Angus guy. His career
began when the Angus breed was still relatively new in this country, and every
job he ever held was with Angus cattle. I can’t recall him ever acknowledging
that another breed had merit, except for the occasional comment that Shorthorn
cattle "would get fat on land that would starve an Angus cow to
death."
Looking back on a lifetime in the business, that single
offhand comment carried far more weight than I realized in my childhood. My
fifty years in the livestock industry were a continual search for the efficient
production of milk and meat. In retirement, I’ve often wondered if I should
have taken that left-handed compliment to the grand old Scottish Shorthorns
much more seriously. Had he seen something in his work that was far more
important than either of us realized at the time?
Over my career, I learned that Angus cattle earned their
reputation for being high-strung and hard to handle. I realized that the
“protective momma” trait Dad used to praise was often just a whitewash for an
aggressive, human-hating instinct. Though he’d never admit it, when we started
in 4-H, I was given an Angus, but Dad bought a gentle, white-faced Hereford
steer for my sister. As a ten-year-old boy, I didn’t question why. But after
fifty years of experience, I know now what Dad knew back then: Herefords and
Shorthorns were quieter, easier-to-handle cattle. I admire his loyalty even
now, even if it wasn't strictly objective.
I was thinking about this one day while mowing my grandson’s
lawn. I enjoy those two hours in the sunlight, getting lost in the hypnotic
roar of the engine as my hands instinctively guide the zero-turn mower.
Thinking about his strong preferences, it suddenly dawned on me that Dad had
grown up on a dairy farm where his father milked Guernsey cows. His first
exposure to Angus cattle was working at Cornell University’s beef farm under a
Scotsman who loved the breed. I guess some boys never get over their first
love.
I can see that tendency in myself sometimes, too.
That revelation brought another memory to the surface during
that same sunlit ride: Dad’s fierce loyalty to Farmall tractors. He despised
all other makes and never considered buying anything else. I had always assumed
this preference was based on a lifetime of practical machinery experience, but
then I remembered that Dad’s uncle ran the county Farmall dealership where Dad
grew up! His very first exposure to tractors in the 1920s had been Farmalls.
Some boys really never do get over their first love.
Realizing these things about my father hasn't diminished him
in my eyes. I still see him as a giant of a man with an amazing amount of
knowledge and confidence—someone who could do almost anything. But I know now
that he was human, with his own flaws and foibles. And while, as it turned out
that he didn’t know everything, he instilled in me a love of learning, he
nurtured my native curiosity, and he set an example of how a man should live.
His code was simple: treat people the way that you want to be treated, your
word should be your bond, if you take the money you do the work, don’t make
promises that you don’t keep,. if you say that you’re going to do it, you do it
or you try until there isn’t any try left. Maybe most importantly he taught me
that no matter what is happening, the sun will come up again tomorrow and life
will go on. This understanding adds
depth to my memories; I recognize that he was as flawed and vulnerable as the
rest of us, yet he taught me some of the most important things that a man can
know.
These lines from Dan Fogelberg’s song, “Leader of the Band,” capture so much of how I feel here in the late innings of life:
“I thank you for the music and your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom when it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness and the times when you got tough
And papa, I don't think I said I love you near enough”
Daddy, I don’t think I said, “I love you” near enough either
and I still miss you all these years later
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