It was time to
put in a call to the local truck line and arrange for a date to load the cattle
that would be going to market. That
meant herding the cattle into the old loading corral where we would sort the
mama cows from the yearlings that would be taking a ride on the truck.
Shipping cattle
was not a good time. The cattle were
used to roaming free in the pasture.
They never willingly went into the corral. And one more thing nobody really liked to
acknowledge: it was time to say goodbye
and abandon animals, some of which were like pets, to their fate.
I was recently reminded
of that sadness I sometimes felt as I watched an animal disappear up the
loading chute. At the fair where we ran
our usual shaved-ice business, a couple of young ladies were literally in tears
as they waited in front of our booth for a cool treat to help them through
their difficulty.
Earlier in the
week, the sleek animals had been carefully curried and led around the show
ring, the judges had pronounced, the ribbons had been awarded, congratulations
offered by friends and family. Just the
day before, the buyers had made generous bids for the show’s top animals.
The girls had just experienced the flip-side
of pocketing a big check for their show animals. They
had loaded their pets onto the stock trailer for their last ride, the trip to
the abattoir where they would be turned into steaks and chops. It was a feeling I sometimes experienced at
cattle-shipping when a bucket calf or an old familiar cow who had been a good mother
but was getting to the age where she could no longer bear a calf climbed the
chute into the truck.
I suspect that
feeling may have been at the root of Dad’s dislike of all things relating to
cattle.
Of course, there
was the opposing view. No one was very
sad to see the tail of the “fence-crawling stinker” pass through the truck’s
end gate. Or the wild one that would
just as soon chase you and knock you down as look at you.
We experienced
our “shipping” moment ourselves this August.
Last year we posted a “For Sale” sign on our shaved-ice booth. We had a couple of nibbles, but due to the
business of moving from our house, we didn’t follow up and lost both
prospective buyers.
This year, the “For
Sale” sign was up again, and we announced that it would be our last year
whether we sold the business or not. “Oh
you said that last year,” said a friend who always drops by our booth during
the Fair. So I told him a farmer story
(he’s a farmer).
An old farmer picked
up an old lamp and rubbed it. Out popped
a genii with his offer of three wishes. “I
want a 50-bushel wheat crop,” said the farmer.
“Done,” said the
genii. “What is your second wish, Master?”
“I want the price
of wheat to go up to $8 a bushel.”
“Done,” said the
genii. “What is your final wish, Master?” But scratch his head as thoroughly as he
could, the old farmer could not think of anything he really wanted bad enough
to justify that important final wish.
Finally, the genii
returned to his lamp, telling the farmer that when he made up his mind, he need
only rub the lamp again and the genii would return to grant his final wish. A
year went by before the genii received his summons. “What is your final wish, Master?" asked the
genii.
“I want
$8-a-bushel wheat.”
“But Master, you
have already had $8 wheat.”
“I know,” said
the farmer, “but this time I’m going to sell.”
Sell we did.
It didn’t happen the way I had hoped.
I wanted someone to back their truck up and load everything right there
at the fairgrounds. I would be done messing with it. Or maybe somebody would take it all over on
Thursday or Friday and we wouldn’t have to go at all on Saturday. None of those
dreams worked out.
Saturday
afternoon came and the tenth block of ice had been converted to shavings. We tore down the set and loaded up as usual,
no buyer in sight. A couple of people
came by and got our phone number, but no truck backed up.
Sunday we got a
phone call. The party would take the
whole business. OK. I didn’t hold my breath. We made an appointment for midweek and sure
enough, they did show up in a pickup and I helped load up the shave-ice stuff
for the last time, I think. (Never say “never”)
So the shaved-ice
business was “shipped.” There was some
sadness to think I wouldn’t be the good-humor man at the fair any longer. That feeling was quickly tempered by the
thought I wouldn’t be maintaining and lifting the machines any more. The stand, freezer, and canopy would clutter
up the barn nevermore. ( Knowing how empty space attracts clutter, something
will replace it. If you build them,
(shelves, storage space), it (junk) will come.)
The Goodwife
told everybody we had been doing it for 26 years. I think, longer. We bought those machines when we lived in
Fort Morgan, 1985-88. Even if it was ’88,
that would still be 27 years. Oh
well.
Many adult customers
remembered coming to the Fair to get a “snow cone”. One lady brought her two kids and said she
had been telling them both how much she looked forward to shaved-ice at the
fair.
A young cowboy (late
20’s, maybe 30) came by on Saturday to have a shaved-ice before taking his
family home. We remembered him as a
young kid, and he reminisced about fairs
past. When he left we were guessing his
age and how long ago it had been.
Another guy who
had been standing there waiting his turn and had listened to the conversation
said, “I’m 42 and I can remember coming to get a shaved-ice at the Fair when I
was a kid.”
That cinched
it. We’ve done it long enough. Bon voyage,
shaved-ice business.
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