"It's a good day," Farmer Edgar said. Edgar actually lived and worked on a ranch, but people these days didn't seem to know the difference. Everybody called him a farmer, and he had gotten tired of correcting them.
Edgar raised cows and bulls, horses, and sheep. He had a family--a wife and a few children. He had a few ranch hands, boys he hired from nearby who worked for a few months or a few years and then moved on.
It was a good day. It was finally warm enough to let the cows out of their stalls. He had a hundred head, and they filled their stalls to bursting. Letting them out into the chill sunshine and a brisk wind was always a joy. How they jumped and ran! How they lowed and nuzzled him, so glad for their freedom.
But today was an even better day than that. Today he was taking the cows into town
Farmers worked hard. Edgar knew that. Everybody knew that. Sunup to sundown, every day, planting, growing, harvesting. Working on machinery, keeping the home up.
Taxes.
Everybody knew farmers worked hard. But ranchers? What do they do? They take care of some animals. It's not like they have to be part veterinarian, part animal psychologist, and part cowboy. It's not like they have to make sure their livelihood is safe during a storm just like farmers, or repair fences, or pay taxes.
And then you have the people who come out to visit and see you in your muddy boots and dirty jeans and wonder why you don't have a six-shooter strapped to your hip. This ain't Hollywood, folks. There are no shootouts here. High noon is when the chuck wagon rolls out, and you wipe the sweat from your brow because you were up before the sun.
Edgar opened the doors and the cows flopped out, kicking their heels and rampaging into the prairie. Wind blew hard, and Edgar held tight to his hat, squinting into the sun. A hundred head of cattle fled the dark and musty confines they had used as a shelter from the snow and cold for months. Edgar shoved dirty fingers into his mouth and his whistle split the morning. The cattle turned toward him and raised a cloud of dust coming over to him, nuzzling his hands and licking his face. He put his fingers in his mouth again, and the second whistle spun the cows around and sent them fleeing, running wild, trampling everything.
Edgar grew a one-sided grin as they went.
"It really was something. We were all just going about our business, minding ourselves, and suddenly people started screaming. Car alarms started going off. Buildings took damage--a few of them actually came down. I was lucky to get away with my life, I think."
"Howdy Edgar, how's the farm?"
Edgar didn't stop throwing bags of feed into the back of his pickup. The man who had asked the question, Tim Grant, waited for a few seconds, then raised his voice again. "Edgar? Didja hear me?"
"I heard ya," Edgar said. "If you're going to stand there jawing, grab a bag."
"Oh, well, I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time to help," Tim said. "Have to get back home soon. Just saying hello."
Tim walked off, and Edgar watched him go. The old man wandered north, up Main Street, stopping to say hello to someone else. Edgar jumped down from the truck and grabbed another bag of feed, aching back complaining every time he shifted the bag in his arms.
"Good morning, Edgar!" a female voice said. "Getting ready to let the cattle out?"
Edgar looked over his shoulder. Misses Cathoway. "Yes'm," Edgar said.
"Well, it looks like you have your hands full," the woman said. "Don't let me bother you. Say hello to Patricia and the kids for me, and you keep that farm upright!"
Edgar stood with the bag in his arms, feet planted. He threw the bag into the truck. His back will pay for it, but he had to throw something.
The sign said "ranch." He called it a "ranch." It was called a "ranch." He farmed nothing. Farmers planted, ranchers birthed. He had supplied beef to everywhere from Seattle to Washington D.C. to overseas, likely.
Patricia had gone to bed. The kids too. He sat in his easy chair staring at the cold fireplace, a bottle of something in his hand. He took swigs and grunted as it sliced its way down his throat. When it was empty he went out to the recycling and tossed the bottle atop the others, clattering the pile. As he walked back to the house he passed a big pile of lumber, extras from fence repair. He stood looking at them a long time.
The next day he set to work. He had a week before he let the cows out.
After he let the cattle out of the pen, he went to the woodpile and pulled out the harnesses. One by one he attached a harness to each cow, a process he did as the sun rose and then fell. He finished around twilight. Like in the old days, he got the herd moving toward town, armed and ready.
"We have no idea what we're going to do with him. Nobody's done anything like this before. We certainly didn't expect it out of him. And for such a strange reason, too!"
"It's a ranch! I'm a rancher!"
"We do know none of us will remember the day of the cow for a long time, even after the town is rebuilt."
Edgar raised cows and bulls, horses, and sheep. He had a family--a wife and a few children. He had a few ranch hands, boys he hired from nearby who worked for a few months or a few years and then moved on.
It was a good day. It was finally warm enough to let the cows out of their stalls. He had a hundred head, and they filled their stalls to bursting. Letting them out into the chill sunshine and a brisk wind was always a joy. How they jumped and ran! How they lowed and nuzzled him, so glad for their freedom.
But today was an even better day than that. Today he was taking the cows into town
Farmers worked hard. Edgar knew that. Everybody knew that. Sunup to sundown, every day, planting, growing, harvesting. Working on machinery, keeping the home up.
Taxes.
Everybody knew farmers worked hard. But ranchers? What do they do? They take care of some animals. It's not like they have to be part veterinarian, part animal psychologist, and part cowboy. It's not like they have to make sure their livelihood is safe during a storm just like farmers, or repair fences, or pay taxes.
And then you have the people who come out to visit and see you in your muddy boots and dirty jeans and wonder why you don't have a six-shooter strapped to your hip. This ain't Hollywood, folks. There are no shootouts here. High noon is when the chuck wagon rolls out, and you wipe the sweat from your brow because you were up before the sun.
Edgar opened the doors and the cows flopped out, kicking their heels and rampaging into the prairie. Wind blew hard, and Edgar held tight to his hat, squinting into the sun. A hundred head of cattle fled the dark and musty confines they had used as a shelter from the snow and cold for months. Edgar shoved dirty fingers into his mouth and his whistle split the morning. The cattle turned toward him and raised a cloud of dust coming over to him, nuzzling his hands and licking his face. He put his fingers in his mouth again, and the second whistle spun the cows around and sent them fleeing, running wild, trampling everything.
Edgar grew a one-sided grin as they went.
"It really was something. We were all just going about our business, minding ourselves, and suddenly people started screaming. Car alarms started going off. Buildings took damage--a few of them actually came down. I was lucky to get away with my life, I think."
"Howdy Edgar, how's the farm?"
Edgar didn't stop throwing bags of feed into the back of his pickup. The man who had asked the question, Tim Grant, waited for a few seconds, then raised his voice again. "Edgar? Didja hear me?"
"I heard ya," Edgar said. "If you're going to stand there jawing, grab a bag."
"Oh, well, I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time to help," Tim said. "Have to get back home soon. Just saying hello."
Tim walked off, and Edgar watched him go. The old man wandered north, up Main Street, stopping to say hello to someone else. Edgar jumped down from the truck and grabbed another bag of feed, aching back complaining every time he shifted the bag in his arms.
"Good morning, Edgar!" a female voice said. "Getting ready to let the cattle out?"
Edgar looked over his shoulder. Misses Cathoway. "Yes'm," Edgar said.
"Well, it looks like you have your hands full," the woman said. "Don't let me bother you. Say hello to Patricia and the kids for me, and you keep that farm upright!"
Edgar stood with the bag in his arms, feet planted. He threw the bag into the truck. His back will pay for it, but he had to throw something.
The sign said "ranch." He called it a "ranch." It was called a "ranch." He farmed nothing. Farmers planted, ranchers birthed. He had supplied beef to everywhere from Seattle to Washington D.C. to overseas, likely.
Patricia had gone to bed. The kids too. He sat in his easy chair staring at the cold fireplace, a bottle of something in his hand. He took swigs and grunted as it sliced its way down his throat. When it was empty he went out to the recycling and tossed the bottle atop the others, clattering the pile. As he walked back to the house he passed a big pile of lumber, extras from fence repair. He stood looking at them a long time.
The next day he set to work. He had a week before he let the cows out.
After he let the cattle out of the pen, he went to the woodpile and pulled out the harnesses. One by one he attached a harness to each cow, a process he did as the sun rose and then fell. He finished around twilight. Like in the old days, he got the herd moving toward town, armed and ready.
"We have no idea what we're going to do with him. Nobody's done anything like this before. We certainly didn't expect it out of him. And for such a strange reason, too!"
"It's a ranch! I'm a rancher!"
"We do know none of us will remember the day of the cow for a long time, even after the town is rebuilt."