Cell Phones

I’ll start by saying, I have no idea how cell phones, or any technology, for that matter, works. I just know that when I push the correct spots on the face of my phone, I get to talk to someone. I know not the magic that allows it to happen, I’m simply happy and relieved that it works. Some days it’s good magic but some days, it’s a dark, dark magic that makes me say bad words.

Yesterday was one of those days. To clarify, it wasn’t necessarily bad, just annoying. I received four calls from people inquiring about my pickup that I am selling. I’m not selling a pickup. Two believed me, two took a fair amount of convincing to not come and look at my invisible pickup. I received several calls marked “potential spam” and I appreciated my phone carrier greatly for recognizing those and saving me the time and frustration of refusing yet another extended warranty on an automobile I haven’t owned in two years.

I also got three calls from local numbers, which I answered, because I’m trusting and somewhat naïve. Each of these stated that they were returning a call they received from me. Sorry, I don’t call more than two people a day, so I new I hadn’t called three strange numbers. The last guy was great though. After I explained that I had received a couple other calls like his, and several calls to buy a pickup that I didn’t own, he said, “While I got you on the line, do you have a pickup for sale?”

All of this unwanted phone activity reminded me of some cell phone calls and texts I had a few years ago. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but at the time Burlington, Colorado and Hershey, Nebraska must have had the same cell phone prefix, and sometimes, it must not matter what area code you use. I had an on and off relationship with a farm wife from Burlington. I let it last longer than it should have, but she was a prolific and entertaining texter. It started harmlessly enough.

“John Deere called and your tractor is done”

“Great, Thanks”

See, harmless. At the time, I was sitting in my tractor and had no clue what she was talking about. I had no idea who it was from, man or woman, but I suspected it was for one of my brothers and never looked back.

About a week later, I got this.

“Where are you?”

“On the Thompson place”

“No you’re not. You’re on the Johnson place”

“Then why did you ask”

“Don’t be an ass. We don’t have a Thompson place”

“I’ve been here disking all day!”

“You’re planting on Johnson’s. Do you want lunch or not?”

“Sure”

It kind of went downhill from there. She called later.

“Where are you?”

“On the Thompson place”

“Who is this???”

“Dan”

“Where the heck(she didn’t say heck) are you? Do you want your sandwich or not?”

“What kind is it?”

“You’re such a jerk”

At least now I knew that she was married to Farmer Dan from Burlington. I thought it was incredibly ironic that there was a Farmer Dan in Burlington with the same phone number as me. The summer went on and Farmer Dan from Burlington’s wife and I had many short, somewhat terse conversations and exchanged some colorful texts.

The last two went something like this.

“Thanks for not appreciating dinner. I put a lot of effort into it and you said nothing. All you ever talk about is how great a cook your mother is. Don’t bother coming home tonight!” This is very much a paraphrase because Mrs. Farmer Dan from Burlington had a special grasp of the English language, and an extremely cutting way of getting her point across.

I did reply. “Sorry”

The last text I received simply informed me that we were getting a divorce. After three months with her, I can honestly tell you I was relieved. I couldn’t take much more and it didn’t seem to me that there was any way to fix our relationship.

The night she told me of our impending divorce, I had many conflicting feelings. I would miss her texts. They always gave me great enjoyment and an interesting form of entertainment. I wondered if Farmer Dan from Burlington had gotten the news of his upcoming divorce. I truly wished I could tell him the happy news. I couldn’t even imagine the relief he would have felt knowing she was leaving him if she treated him in person the way she treated me on my phone.

Mostly, after the whole experience, I hope and pray that Farmer Dan from Burlington found a lovely girl who appreciates his mother!

Someday It Will Be Funny. Maybe

By 1968, Dad had grown tired of watching crops burn up. He put in an irrigation well, added a CAT engine, and bought a mile of mainline and at least a half mile of sprinkler pipe. By then he had four boys to help him move it. I had just entered the picture, so I wasn’t much help (Thank goodness). With the built in labor force, he earnestly tried to water every inch of ground he could. They laid mainline where ever possible and even carried hand move sprinklers, with the aid of poles, through corn. It’s not hard to figure out why two of my brothers practically disappeared after six years of that.

In 1974, I was mostly a nuisance when it came to moving pipe. I would try to ride the sprinkler joints while Dad and Mom, or one of my brothers carried it the required number of steps, to the next set. There were twenty eight joints, I think, so my brothers got proficient at shaking me off so they didn’t have the extra weight. I did want to be a part of it and at least think I was helping. Dad would have me help move the mainline. I could line the two ends up and hold the clip that held the two together up out of the way while Dad shoved them together.

It was a great Father/Son bonding experience for the most part. The only hiccup we ever had happened on one of those perfect, cool summer evenings. We were putting the mainline back out in the alfalfa. I was lining pipe up, holding the clip up, and saying “shove!” Dad would push them together, I’d clip them, and on to the next pipe we’d go. Line it up, hold up clip, “Shove”, watch in horror as finger disappears between pipe.

It must have felt wrong on his end, because Dad jerked the pipe apart, and I held up my hand. My little finger was kind of hanging beside my hand and I can tell you this, there’s a lot of blood in a six year old’s finger. Dad came running down the pipe, but I was too quick for him. “You cut off my finger!!” It was a very rational reaction from a six year old. “Would you stop! Come here.” “No! I want MOM. You cut off my finger!” The race was on. He yelled at my brother, who seemed to be frozen and watching the excitement from a safe distance, “Would you go get your mother!!” She was a quarter mile away setting out a sprinkler line with another brother. It could have been his fastest 440 ever. Dad finally caught me and wrapped up my finger with his dirty handkerchief. It was the kind of farm triage that builds a healthy immune system.

I tell this story, not because it’s a great story, but because it illustrates how time takes a little of the edge off certain episodes. 2020 has, so far, been a crazy, crappy, shake your head kind of year. My finger looks a little funky forty some years later, and I imagine, 2020 will look a little funky years from now. BUT, it will be a part of our history and it will have molded us and affected us in ways, good or bad. It will be a little like having a scar, that in time heals, but leaves a mark.

Coronavirus Casualty

I’m blaming the weather. Are anyone else’s cows a little nutty this year. I pride myself on calm cows that just stand there while I tag their babies. This year, so far, I’ve had three come after me. Percentage wise, that’s probably not bad, and if you get out of the way, it’s no big deal. Tag them later. Unfortunately today, the third time was a charm.

I had tagged seven calves with no issues. I grabbed number eight and sat on him. Momma kept close watch over me while I banded him. When I started to give him his shot, I can’t really tell you what happened. I did a backwards somersault, and then another, and another, and another. I believe there were more gymnastics mixed in there also, but I can’t be too sure. After approximately six said somersaults, she finally decided to go back and check on her baby.

I must admit, when I got to my feet, I was not a happy camper. The things I said while I was picking up everything she scattered out of my calf kit can’t be printed. It was along the lines of , “If you think I’m done with that calf, you got another think coming!” I picked up my kit and walked up to that calf and grabbed him by the back leg again. That B….that Sh…..that rotten ……that ol’ cow chased me all the way down the hill we were on. When I went by my Ranger, I thought she’d stop. Nope. She wasn’t gaining on me, but I wasn’t getting any separation either. About 60 yards into the chase, my coveralls and the calf kit were starting to weigh on me. I was just about to accept death when she gave up chase and went back to her calf.

I walked back and sat in my Ranger, still puffing. I thought about a couple things. First thing, I really need to start running again. Second, I was glad she didn’t kill me. I could just see the headline. “Local stockman dies of coronavirus complications. Underlying health conditions included angry 1400 pound cow.”

Happy New Year

Here I sit, looking out the picture window, watching the sun set on another year. It’s truly amazing how much we can experience from Solstice to Solstice. We pack in memories and hopes and dreams and good and bad over the last 365 days, then file it with all the previous ones. Some make big plans for the upcoming year. People resolve to this and that, or maybe quit something else. I was asked yesterday what my New Year’s Resolution was. It’s the same as usual. I’ll try to be a good dad. I may even try to be nicer to people and swear less when I work cows.

This past week, I took my lovely bride out to dinner. A young couple was in the booth behind us with four little ones, I’m guessing about eight, six, three, and a new baby. They were good as gold. When they left, I attempted humor and wondered aloud if they knew what caused that. My bride reminded me that our children were actually closer than those four.

So now, as the current year draws to a close, I have been reflecting on our past New Year’s. I thought I’d share one when our children were about the same age as the little ones at the restaurant. For some reason, we got a wild hair and decided to haul four kids, ages 1,3,5 and 7, to Minneapolis to see my bachelor brother. I’ve made poor decisions before, but this one was a doozy.

First night there, we’re off to Chuckie Cheese’s to eat bad pizza, drink too much soda, and touch a hundred games that a thousand children before us had touched. All was well, until the next evening, when child number two unloaded used hot cocoa all over my brother’s living room. As much as I prayed that it was just her weak stomach, child three and four, quickly followed with violent volleys of partially digested food and nuclear waste.

New Year’s morning we decided to make a run for it. My brave brother, who hadn’t had a stomach bug since high school was locked in his bathroom with lysol and disinfectant wipes. We said good-bye through the door and loaded the kids in the minivan as child number one began to forcefully empty.

Five hours into our eleven hour trip home, Number Two decided she’s better and she’s hungry. All vomiting had slowed so we pulled into the first fast food place and got her chicken nuggets. Bad decisions seemed to plague this trip. Not twenty miles down the road, I hear, “Dad, I don’t feel so good.” That was immediately followed by ‘SPLAAAAAT’. While we cleaned chicken nugget chunks off the windshield (yes, really) we contemplated getting a hotel room in Omaha and waiting it out. That’s when we made our first good decision. Five hours more, and we would be in our own beds.

Trust me. Our driveway never looked so welcoming. I came to a stop at the back door, stepped out of the van and it was my turn. Good Heavens. The bathroom floor was the most comfortable spot in the house for the next eight hours. I actually decided I might live the next morning when my phone rang. It was my brother. A weak and trembling voice on the other end of the line said, “I hate you.”

Just a dog?

Red showed up in the spring of ’06, a full grown, wiener dog and something mix. He made himself right at home and quickly adopted Eli as his own personal human. Together, they shared countless adventures, slaying dragons, dinosaurs, and boredom. The kids had a series of forts on the farm where, with their dogs, they conquered childhood. They played and imagined while the faithful dogs kept watch. Red killed snakes, chased off skunks and badgers, and would not have flinched if a dragon would have threatened his charge.

It wasn’t all fun and games. He also fancied himself a cow dog. More than once he got yelled at for healing cows the wrong direction or standing under the trailer, biting them as they loaded. He certainly felt he was indispensable, checking cows from the front seat of the pickup, head out the window, ears flowing back in airplane mode.

Those little legs covered a lot of miles. He trained for several marathons and countless halves, 10Ks and 5Ks. Only as the gray started to take over did he run the first half mile, then turn back and happily meet us at the mailbox when we finished our run.

When Eli went to basic training, Red would lie in the living room, head on his paws, looking wistfully into his master’s empty room. He had protected his boy from ‘dad attacks’ and the bogey man for years inside that room. When Eli was sick, Red comforted him. When he read, or played guitar, Red curled up and simply enjoyed his company.

Red was a funny, crazy, yappy, faithful hound dog. He struck the doggy lotto when he showed up all those years ago. He was always a bright eyed bouncy dog until the last couple days. It was hard (and it is with every dog) burying him today. I faced him east toward the sunrise and put his ears in airplane mode. Strange, how tears flow hot and unchecked for a little animal that becomes such a big part of life.

Fall Festival Fail

A full day of small town fall festival fun can be exhausting. Breakfast, parade, barbecue in the park, ice cream social, car show, and other activities make for a long day. In many places throughout the day and especially at the dance between the bars, the German Kool-aid flows like the two rivers that meander past our little town. Several years ago, I had spent all day Saturday enjoying the festivities, but not the liquid ones.

I had helped with the dance and at about 1 am I headed out to change water. That won’t mean anything to some, but believe me, others know how one feels about changing water in the middle of the night by the end of August. I was already suffering from sleep deprivation and I had just spent all of Saturday on the go. I was a prime candidate for a UFO encounter.

I found myself in the middle of the cornfield, late at night, eerily quiet except for the rush of water through the pipe and into the rows. I always enjoy the stars, searching for constellations and satellites. A bright light moving slowly back and forth above me was not what I had expected. A chill ran through me and I began to try to convince myself it was an airplane or the Air Force, and it would be long gone when I got the set changed. It wasn’t. Still there, still moving, back and forth. I made my way back to the pickup, and I don’t know if any of you have tried this, but I willed the motor to be as quiet as possible, and hoped my tires maybe wouldn’t touch the ground on the way home. It sounded like a Sherman tank driving out of the field. I knew whatever it was would notice me now.

I got about halfway home and decided to see if it was still following me. It was. Still there, still moving, still bright. So I called the Sheriff.

“Hey, this is Dan Huebner, has anyone reported a bright light moving around in the sky?” Just a word of advice, if you ever call the sheriff with a stupid question, don’t tell them who you are.

“No, you’re the first one tonight. Where are you?”

“I’m south of Hershey changing water.” There’s a pause and I think I hear stifled laughter, but I’m pretty focused on the light that seems even brighter and more active.

“Have you been at the Fall Festival all day?”

“Yeah, I just came from the street dance.”

“We’ll have someone check it out.” It took me years to realize that was dispatcher code for “Buddy, you started drinking at the parade this morning and you, my friend, need to go to bed.”

I got home and it was still up there. Still moving, back and forth. By now I’ve added a creepy aura around it and it has definitely changed positions in the night sky. I run in and drag Allison out of bed.

“Do you see it?” I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when she said “YES!”

I needed a second opinion, so I called brother Steve, who was staying at Mom’s. Why I thought he would answer his phone in the middle of the night is beyond me, but he did.

“Do you want to see a UFO?”

He was on his way, with my mom in tow. Allison and I were out in the driveway watching it when mom and Steve got there. Steve got out and looked with amazement at our mysterious light. Mom slowly got out of the car and shuffled around to the front so she could lean on the fender and look up. There we were, staring up at the UFO, directly above the farm. It was still there, still moving, and still bright. The hair on the back of my neck had been standing up for about an hour now.

My mom looks right at me and says, “Oh, Hell, don’t you read the papers? That’s Mars. It’s trajectory is the closest it gets to Earth’s. It’s so close, the atmosphere refracts the light giving the illusion of movement.”

She got back in the car and slammed the door. Needless to say, they went home and Allison went back to bed. I stood there, staring wistfully up at the Red planet, watching it bob and weave and shine. I realized, standing there alone, that if a UFO was actually looking for some sort of intelligent life form in my driveway that night, all they would find was the dog.

I used to like Spotify

The kids got me hooked on Spotify. I build my own playlist, pirate theirs, and search all kinds of random music. When I’m in the shop, I usually pick an artist and hit shuffle. It’s nice background while I’m working on a project.

Last week, I was getting the drill ready to plant sorghum-sudan grass and thought a little throw back country sounded fun. I saw Restless Heart in concert three times during college, but hadn’t given them a listen for years. I hit shuffle, thinking I would hear a wide range of old favorites. I did and it was fun to wake up some old memories. What I wasn’t prepared for was Christmas music. I realize I hit shuffle, but I never thought they’d mix in, nor did I know there was, Restless Heart Christmas music.

Now, everyone knows I love Christmas music all year long, so it should have been sort of awesome, having random, jingly Christmas music in the shop. What caught me off guard was the song itself. I’ve got a boy at basic training right now, and the other one is a senior. Both are three inches taller than me and way better looking than I ever hoped I could be. They should thank their mother. Anyway, when “Old Toy Trains” came on, it set me back a bit. You know the one, ‘Old toy trains, little toy tracks, little boy toys coming from a sack’.

I started thinking about the North Pole Mining Company. Every Christmas, the boys would get out every toy truck we had and haul load after load of silver and gold out from under the tree. It was quite a business. Last Christmas, they still put several of the trucks around the tree, but not nearly as much mining took place as in years past. It’s difficult for a business when the partners pursue different interests or are just plain over qualified for the work itself and the remaining partner’s knees can’t handle scooting around on the floor like they used to. I hated to even think about shuttering such a lucrative, albeit, seasonal business.

I was kind of fiddling with the seed tubes on the drill when the song was coming to an end. I thought I was having some sort of allergic reaction. I had heartburn, and my throat was tight, and my eyes were kind of watering. It was that, or I was having a very rare tender and poignant moment. Fortunately for me, my screwdriver slipped and went through the end of my thumb. I felt better after that. What did I learn? No more Spotify in the building.

Cheap Sunglasses, a Sleeping Bag, and some Tush?????

I spend a lot of time listening to the radio. It’s one of the perks of working alone all the time. I switch stations constantly for variety. There are several Christian stations, too many Country stations, Public radio, Sports talk, Royals or Rockies this time of year. I listen to KRVN for ag news. I can barely tolerate the talk show stations, liberal or conservative. I don’t know if any of those city folks know what ‘beating a dead horse’ means, but they do it regularly.

Here’s the one that really irks me, though, Classic Rock stations. There are three local and several more I can pick up if the tractor is pointed the right direction. It’s a misnomer. Classic rock is the Stones, the Beatles, Paul Revere and the Raiders, Cream, Jefferson Airplane, etc, etc. These so called “Classic Rock” stations are playing stuff from my youth. I’ll have you know, my youth is not that far removed to be called ‘Classic’.

Anyway, I was listening to one of said “Classic Rock” stations this evening and the disc jockey played an awesome set of so called “Classic Rock”. Def Leppard, AC/DC, followed by Van Halen shook the tractor windows. For ten uninterrupted minutes I didn’t worry about the farm economy, or my kids, or the weather, or finances, or cows being out. I simply assaulted my ears with screaming guitars and wasted youth.

I leaned back in the seat, being thankful for auto steer, because it makes air guitaring much easier, and had a bit of a reckoning. I have blamed my hearing loss on my vocation for years, but could it be something else? Well, probably not, but we all have certain songs that must be listened to with the volume turned up to eleven (Spinal Tap reference for the younger generation).

At that moment, I felt all was well with the world. It just couldn’t get much better. Then, the DJ says a new stage production is in the works………”ZZ Top the Musical – Sharp Dressed Man”!! Praise the Lord, I was so wrong. Life got exponentially better. I’m not much of a go to a Broadway musical kind of guy. I totally missed Wicked and Hamilton, but I’d walk farther than the Proclaimers to see a musical paying homage to Tres Hombres. My entire immature, hormonal, awkward youth, packaged and put on stage could be nothing short of miraculous. Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t dream of waking up with Eliminator’s keys.

Dog brains vs Man brains…..no contest.

It’s finally spring and time for pairs to go to grass. I’ve got a set ready to work tomorrow and thought I’d bring them in to the corrals tonight to save time in the morning. I don’t know why I thought that, being home alone, no help in sight except for the dogs, but I decided to take a stab at it. 35 pairs were strung out about a half mile from the house, with the farthest away naturally being the calves. Jones (actual cow dog) and I walked out and around them. He kept looking at me all the way out there like, “why don’t you ride a horse?” That’s another story for another time. I explained it to him, but we had time on our walk. He didn’t believe me, but the time passed more quickly. I have to admit my surprise, but we slowly and surely bunched them up and pointed them all toward the house. Halfway in, we got to the cedar windbreak and like good cows, they split. All the cows but one, along with about ten calves went on the west side of the trees, while one cow and 25 or so calves went on the east side. This wasn’t in my plans, although my plans, as usual, were pretty fluid. I walked along the tree line talking to both sets of calves while Jones trotted out in the middle of the calving pen to keep the calves close to the fence. Good dog. The whole group came out of the north end of the trees close to the corrals. I had the gate open, but little chance of pointing 35 milling pair towards it let alone coaxing them through it. This is where my planning was a bit weak. I hadn’t really thought about this stage of the cattle drive because I really didn’t believe I’d get this far. I stood there, still in the trees myself, a little perplexed and making up plan C. A couple cows decide they were bored there and were going to head back out. I gave a little whistle and waved to turn them back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jones’ ears go down. He knifed through the trees and hit those cows heals. I had visions of nuclear devastation and cows and calves going every direction but in. *Language warning* I ran out of the trees screaming, “Down, Down, Down, Dammmmmittttt Jones, you Son of a ……GOOD DOG!!!!!!” Seventy tails, straight up in the air, went right in the gate. I did a little happy dance, closed the gate, and told Jones how good of a dog he was, which he already knew.

Memorial Day

Everyone has one in his or her town. Etched in stone, concrete, or granite is a list of names. Sometimes they’re by the high school football field, or baseball complex, or in a park. Stop and look at it. Reach out and trace the names with your finger. They’re real people. If you grew up there, you recognize a few family names or even a relative. Most were young and in the prime of their lives. In our extremely short history as a country, we’ve had over 1.2 million pay the ultimate price for freedom. Dad would talk about Dude Straub. Dude lived west of Uncle John and Aunt Ida’s and would come help brand or move cows or anything else they needed help with at the farm. Dad said Dude looked like he walked right out of a movie. He was over 6 foot and hardened from farm labor. He was happy-go-lucky I think. During the depression, when his family would run out of firewood and coal, they had to pick up wagon loads of cow pies to burn, Dude painted “Heifer City Coal” on the side of the buckboard wagon. To a nine year old kid, Dude was hero material. When Dude joined the navy in 1942, Dad couldn’t imagine the US military would need anyone else to defeat the Axis powers. On January 10, 1943, Durward Staub’s PBY Catalina crashed on a training mission, killing all crew members. When Dad was an old man, Dude was still 25, blond and tan, and Dad could still hear his infectious laugh. This is our little town’s monument. It’s a monument to forever young men. Your town may have more or less names, but it’s our price tag, payment in full for our freedom. We all pray that no more names are added, but evil manifests itself in every age. Look at the boyish face of Paul Martin or the bullet riddled helicopter Larry Liles died in, and be thankful.