Story Telling Time

December 2005/January 2006

Back in the 1930s I had an uncle whose great passion was dealing in horses. He once owned a pretty brown pony with a white blaze on its face. To make this young pony even more appealing, my uncle had a small, two-wheel cart that could hold five kids. But this lovely pony had one great fault: whenever he was mad or angry he would back up instead of go forward. My uncle sold him at least two or three times. He was just too smart for kids to handle.

At one point my uncle was plain sick of this pony. Of course my brother and I were crazy to take the pony home, knowing our father could break him of his bad habits. My dad finally drove the pony home and we used the cart to do chores that night. Everything went great with the pony when my dad was around. But as soon as he left, the pony that we called “Billy” could back up so fast it was amazing-- and frightening as he damaged the things he backed into.

My brother and I had this old BB gun, and we decided that next time Billy started to back up, we would blast a BB off his rear end. The next day we put our brilliant idea to work. Sure enough, old Billy started to back up with great speed. I was ready and bounced a BB off of Billy’s tail. In a heartbeat Billy changed gears and moved forward. Seldom did we ever blast Billy again with that old gun.

I’m sure you good Suffolk people are wondering what this story has to do with the purebred sheep business. It has everything to do with our industry. Most breeders have lost first gear and are in reverse.

Let’s take a look at most of the old breeds. The show ring has demonstrated that they’ve gotten big, meaning tall and long. By doing this, many breeds have the same look. I can no longer tell the difference between the top four or five wool breeds. Shropshires, Hamps and Oxfords are very similar. The Dorset, Southdown and Montadales are so tall it’s amazing. These are just examples of what is happening today. These sheep are things of pure beauty, bred for the show ring. But they are not wanted by the commercial breeders. In fact, we have 1,500 commercial ewes and it would be a joke to breed them to a tall show ram.

Our outstanding President Bill MacCauley writes, whether we want to admit it or not, we in the show ring business are in the entertainment business. I had never thought of this idea, but maybe Bill is right. Bill tells about breeders cheating on the age of their lambs. I also get many letters complaining about this. It’s time we put blame on the people that judge these sheep. It’s an honor to judge sheep shows---and perhaps judges need the backbone or pure guts to put a stop to this stupidity. My hope is that breeders will come back to the middle of the road---once again breeding useful, easy doing sheep. Sheep that are tough, hardy and fast growing. Ones that can get by on pasture. We must once again promote these type of sheep by taking them to shows and sales to compete with the big, tall show sheep. At this time I feel there are more of us coming back to the middle of the road. It’s time we get out of the ditch and make our presence known.

Over the years I’ve gotten a few letters from Tom Brown, a veteran Suffolk breeder from Ohio. Tom is not only a true livestock man, he is still one of our outstanding judges of purebred sheep. Tom sent me a couple great quotes that I think everyone should read and think about. I’ll only use the last one he sent as it applies to all purebred breeds: “It is said that a rugged rancher can live up to two minutes without air, up to two months without food and up to two generations without a new idea.” Let’s give Tom’s quote some good thought. Doesn’t this fit the breeding of our purebred sheep industry today? Maybe we can avoid picking up the old BB gun and instead think about Tom’s quote to get this industry to change gears and move forward.

I’m going to end this article with a special moment in my life. This will be the third time it has been published in the Suffolk News. I seldom get a letter in which you good breeders do not mention my favorite story. It’s not about sheep, blue ribbons, championships or big trophies. It’s about the pride and faith that men have in their livestock. This is a story of my father and his favorite and most dependable team of horses.

A Christmas Story

We’ll go back to 1938, when my twin brother and I were ten years old. We were just coming out of the Great Depression of the early 1930s. Like everyone else, we were as poor as church mice, but things were finally looking up for us and the rest of the country.

At the time, we didn’t have a tractor. We had eight good work horses, and we always raised two or three colts a year. My father took great pride in his horses, as he did all of his livestock. He gave them special care, and in return he expected them to always produce, work, and of course, help him make his living farming.

It was about dark, a week before Christmas, when we heard a knock on our door. It was a fellow who owned a fuel truck. He had gotten his truck stuck delivering fuel to one of our neighbors and he wondered if we had a tractor that could pull him out of a very muddy driveway. My father told him that we had no tractor, but he did have a great team of horses that could pull better than most tractors of that time.

The fuel man of course thought that my father was crazy to think that a team of horses could accomplish this tough feat. But my dad assured that man that he could pull him out. We quickly went to the barn to get the horses harnessed. Before we left, my dad made sure that the harness was clean and polished, and he brushed the team’s manes and tails. We hooked them onto a hay wagon and drove the mile to where the truck was stuck.

By the time we got there, probably 15 or 20 people were standing around waiting for the big show to start. Of course, not one of them thought that our great team could pull the truck out of the mud. We quickly hooked the team to the back of the truck as my father told the fuel man to start the truck and be ready to back up when he started to pull.

But things did not go as planned. The driver killed his truck, and Dad’s team failed to pull like they were supposed to. I could see by the look in my father’s eyes that he knew he was in trouble, and maybe he had bitten off more than he could handle.

My father quickly halted his team to a stop. He seized them by their bridles and just stared into their eyes. He then spoke to them in a very stern voice, as though they were human, and told them his very reputation as a horseman and livestock man was at stake. They could pull the load and were not to let him down. Then, he again shook their bridles and just glared at them.

At this time, I was relieved to see that my dad was in control, and his big team had understood the meaning of his stern words. But the suspense began as he told the driver to start the truck and that he better be able to keep it going. My father had changed his strategy this time. He backed his big team up and was going to give the truck a huge jerk to get it moving.

I can still see it and have thought about it a million times. My father had backed his team up. The reins looked like shoelaces intertwined with his huge hands. He held the lines so tightly, you could almost hear them crack under the pressure. He was calling out their names, very slowly at the start, his voice getting louder with each second. When he thought his team was together and ready to pull, he let out a war whoop to PULL! When the force of the pull hit the horses, it picked their front ends off the ground as though they were dangling in the air. They were breathing so hard that it looked as though fire and smoke were streaming from their nostrils in the cold night.

When my father’s powerful team came down, the were together, pulling like the champions that they were. My father was calling out their names, commanding them not to stop. He had let the lines almost drop and was towering over them as the horses were almost up to their knees in the soft, muddy ground, but every step got easier. When they reached the road my dad even put a flare of showmanship into his great pull. He turned his horses sharply in the road to pull the truck around and to straighten it out.

The look on his face was one my brother and I had seldom seen during the hard years of the ‘30s. He was almost laughing, his eyes dancing like big brown diamonds. What he did next I will never forget. He took the horses by the bridles, looked them deep in the eyes, and thanked them for not letting him down. The horses, still breathing almost fire and smoke, with slobber all over their mouths, rubbed their damp heads all over his shoulders, knocking his hat off. It was like three kids bragging and laughing about a great victory, a truly joyous moment. Everybody there was shaking hands with my dad, confirming what a great team of horses he had. You can be sure that he was enjoying that special moment as much as we were.

We quickly hooked the horses up to the wagon, and I got to drive them home. The Christmas trees were all on in the neighbor’s homes. The sounds of the horses’ hooves on the pavement were like a Christmas carol as I let them trot home.

Maybe you had to be there to appreciate this special event. Or maybe one had to live at that time to appreciate the special emotion that my brother, father and I had felt that cold night. To me, it will always be the greatest livestock event that I have ever seen. The ribbons and trophies weren’t there, but there was no doubt that my father was a master livestock man.

Once again, I thank you for letting me come into your homes; love your families. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.