I remember being terrified (trying not to show it) the first time Dad took Zookie and I into the big paddock and stepped away. There I was holding a rope attached to a large animal who wanted to run. That first time, and many others, our steers put our wills to the test. I have clear memories of being dragged through the mud and manure of the paddock until Zookie got bored or tired and stood still. My hands burned. My arms shook. But I held on.
these were not pets. They were projects and investments. Some - day soon, they would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. In those nights of molasses and brushing, it was easy to forget the coming end. For us, the steers were partners, stubborn but loyal in their own way. They were our ticket to the fair, our chance to prove ourselves in front of judges, neighbors, and friends. There
was a competition between Terry and me that lived most- ly unspoken. It was about who learned faster, who earned Dad’s attention, who belonged more naturally in this world. Terry seemed to glide through it. I scraped and struggled, always feeling one step behind.
Ebony was calmer than Zookie, but Terry enjoyed similar rides. I don’t remember Dad helping much or even being around after the first few times. Breaking these steers was a job for us to do, and we did it (at least that’s the way I remem- ber it). Soon enough (weeks perhaps?), our steers became docile under lead, and we could move around together, though with the grace and synchrony of teenagers at their first dance. Terry said Ebony listened
Still, there were evenings when the barn belonged only to us. Late light filtered through the boards. Dust hung golden in the air. We leaned against the stalls and talked about school and the Fair. In those moments, the steers were not projects. They were just there, breathing quietly, part of our small world.
Positioning feet for optimum appearence 3
because he respected him. I said Zookie did not listen because he was stubborn. The truth lived somewhere between, but neither of us was ready to admit it. We were then ready for the long process of learning the Dancing with the Steers choreography, then practicing un- til we could do it flawlessly. We also spent long hours groom - ing our steers and learning how to comb and curl their hair to hide their flaws and enhance their strong points. Dad inspected our work with the eye of a judge, reminding us that
By winter, something shifted. Zookie still fought me, but there were moments when he followed my guidance. His head came up when I asked. His steps matched mine for a few yards. One evening, Dad watched and placed a hand on my shoulder. It was not praise. But it was enough. That night, I lay awake thinking about ropes and rules and how brothers learn who they are together. STAY TUNED! PART II OF "THE LAST FAIR" WILL BE 3 Photo from website for December, 2009, Arizona National Livestock Show: http://www.anls.org/)
PUBLISHED IN THE NEXT EDITION. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tom Bache is a retired Physicist who enjoys writing about history that shaped his life. He was born in Berwick during WWII and lived on Columbia County farms until our family moved to Indiana in 1958 when he was 15. He first visited San Diego when he was a Marine Corps officer and in 1968 separated from his beloved Marine Corps ( once a Marine, always a Marine ) to obtain a PhD at the University of California, San Diego. San Diego has remained his home ever since.
The author in 1968 when he was a USMC Captain. The photo was taken 1968 shortly after he returned (unscathed) from Vietnam service as a Combat Engineer.
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