Lambing is the time to really evaluate our stud rams. The trouble is that it’s a little late. I realize that all breeders have records miles long, plus the blood tests, etc. Too many times we forget the real important things when we buy our rams, like for instance: did he get up at birth or did he just lie there like a pile of stones? Could he nurse the ewe by himself or did he need help? What we really need is a test for a ram’s sex drive. In short, can he breed the ewes on time, or does he just stand around admiring their beauty? There is nothing worse than a deadhead or lazy ram, no matter how great he looks.

Old breeders like us are really in a bad situation as so many of our ewes are either Q.Q. or Q.R. We have no choice but to go out and buy R.R. rams. When breeders like us cannot use our own rams that we know will breed true, it’s big trouble for the next two or three years. For years, we have been buying rams from the West every five to six years, plus, of course, using our own. For some reason, all these western rams have been Q.Q. For the last three years, we have been using mostly R.R. rams, trying desperately to get a stud ram we think worthy of using. At this time, we have 14 pellets from Buckham 243 who was born in 1984. He was by far the greatest ram that we ever bred. We purchased Rumor, a Suffolk ram, with our old friends, the Chapmans, who was another great ram. This ram was the high-selling ram at Sedalia in 1994. We still have 25 pellets from him. Last but not least, we have 75 pellets from Franchise, an Andrus ram. We purchased this ram from Poulsen Brothers in 1997. He was four years old at the time as was perhaps the greatest looking Suffolk ram I’ve ever seen. Of course, the sad story is that they are all Q.Q. and until we can get R.R. ewes, we’ll never be able to use these great rams. Sad…you’d better believe it.

Now is the time when a lot of fairs and shows are picking men and women to judge their market lambs and breeding shows. I feel that the officials that do this should do a little more thinking on this subject. I realize that everyone loves to judge, but perhaps it’s time we think about the pure fact: do these people have the experience or knowledge of the sheep business in general? Like it or not, the men and women judging our livestock shows have a big influence on how far too many breeders react to the type of sheep that they should be raising. I urge everyone who has the honor of judging a show, big or small; to pick lambs that would make good, sound breeding animals.

I really enjoy writing in the Suffolk News because of all the great letters I get. Ninety percent of them are from women. The other ten percent are from men over fifty. I have been told that our paper is going to start printing letters to the editor, which I feel is a great idea. We need something to liven up our paper and make it more interesting or simply more fun. Breeders can write about anything. Those of you who get upset with my remarks can express your opinions, etc. I have a really thick skin; it’s been toughened by the years, sun, and wind. I’m sure that I can handle any bad remarks, or for that matter, the good ones.

Now I know that you men from twenty-one to fifty could not write a letter if your life depended on it. Putting words on paper is a dying art. Tell your good wife or mother (or do as I do and get your granddaughter) your thoughts on the Suffolk business and I’m sure that she’ll make it interesting and enjoyable to read.

At this time of my life, I do a lot of thinking. I’m not sure that it’s for the best because my thoughts are in the past instead of the future. Maybe it’s because my grandchildren are interested in the past and the way I lived in the 1930’s. Our very culture is so important to them and how we overcame the Great Depression. I think that they want to be left with some sort of legacy and know why I choose the tough occupations of farming and raising livestock. For those of you who are interested in the importance and meaning of owning land and the hard work and love that it takes, read on.

I’ll go back to 1939. It was early Sunday morning on a beautiful April day. For some reason, my father always plowed the garden at this time. We still didn’t have a tractor, so of course he plowed it with a walking plow and two good, big workhorses. My twin brother, Fred, and I always loved this event as we followed him, enjoying the wonderful-smelling earth, throwing dirt balls and worms at each other, and of course, sliding on the freshly plowed dirt, pretending that we were great ball players stealing a base. What made it even better was that we knew spring was here.

This was a very special day for my mother, father, and us boys. My mother had made the last payment on our 240-acre farm, which was a lot of land in those days. My father looked like a different man. That tired look on his face was gone, his eyes were bright, almost shining; his walk was almost like he was dancing. When we got done, he tied the team to a gate and came back to us, picked up the freshly plowed, mellow dirt and told us that this was our dirt and that we owned this land, free and clear. All of a sudden, the three of us were rolling in the dirt yelling, "This is our dirt, our land!" Suddenly, my mother came running out of the house thinking that someone had been hurt. My father got up and grabbed her, thanking her for sticking out the hard times, told her that he loved her and that he couldn’t have done it without her. Then he gave her a long, passionate kiss. My brother and I were dumbfounded as we had hardly ever seen them touch each other through those hard times. My mother quickly pulled away and said to my father, "What will the boys think!?" She immediately started for the house, and then all of a sudden, she ran back to my father with tears streaming down her face, thanked him for being able to stick it out, and told him that few men could have done what he did. She then threw her arms around him and told him that she loved him, that he was a special man, and then she gave him a long, romantic kiss.

My brother and I were so overwhelmed. The next thing we knew, all four of us were rolling in the dirt, screaming, "This is our land! Our farm!"

My mother suddenly got up and said, "Look at my clean dress!" and walked quickly into the house. Before she opened the door, she turned back at us and, with her arms in the air, yelled once again, "This is our dirt, our farm!" She looked young that special day. In fact, I can still see her.

My mother fixed a huge meal that wonderful day with everything we loved to eat. My brother and I started almost grabbing for food when my father stopped us and said that he wanted to give a prayer. His words were, "God, I’ve asked you a million times if you would help me own this land. I’ll never again ask for another thing." I know for a fact that my father never asked God for anything else, even on his dying day. The farm, my mother and us boys were God’s gift to him, and he never forgot it.