The Tradition

The house was locked up tighter than Ft. Knox and lights out. 

Caroline was sound asleep in her crib and her chest was moving up and down (at what age do parents stop checking this?). 

Prayers were said, and I was so, so close to sleep. 

That's when I heard my cell phone buzz on the nightstand. 

A text from Cody, two time zones west: "You may need to keep an eye on 301. I think she's starting.”

Keep an eye on 301? My eyes were about to shut for five straight hours, I thought to myself.

Work Hard, Rest Hard

And so, the last three months have been as such. It has only been at night, when the sun settles somewhere far past Indiana, and it is dark and cold that the cattle calm enough to focus on what they’re all supposed to be doing this time of year: Calving. 

The good news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors without getting bundled up. 

The bad news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (if you have the stamina). 

The worst news is Cody can access those cameras from his phone, no matter where his travels take him. 

My phone is my alarm clock, and my alarms are set as follows when I think something shows signs of calving overnight: 

The wake schedule is basically 
like having a new baby in the house.
And I wonder why my under-eye 
cream doesn't seem to be working. 

I haven't always answered the call of duty, though. On one particular night in late February I slept through three texts and four phone calls from Cody. He went on to contact a neighbor for help, while I slept soundly in the house. We have amazing rural neighbors. 

The months of January through March have been comprised of spot lights cutting through pastures, warm gloves and late night texts between husband and wife, and not the exciting kind. These are the kind of texts that silently say, "We're in this together, even when hundreds of miles apart." 

He sends me shots of the beautiful countryside he’s seeing from coast to coast and advice on how to handle difficult situations at home, while I send him photos of the newest calves to hit the ground and video of our sweet Caroline. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

Each morning and evening (and sometimes overnight) I come in the house and unbundle. Usually exhausted, sometimes frustrated, but never questioning the work. I was raised this way and Cody was, too. Caroline – the greatest and slowest farm hand I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with – already has the farm life engrained in her. I have to bribe her out of the barn with goldfish crackers.

Sometimes she watches me struggle to move a rogue calf or pen a pair and seems to say,
"Dad would have had this done thirty minutes ago."

In our dining room hangs a poem given to us on our wedding day. The gifters - my in-laws - no doubt knew the bride and groom well, and all that they (we) were about to embark upon.

The Tradition

Some folks just don’t get it.

They think owning cattle makes no sense.

It takes too much time, too much equipment,

not to mention the expense.

But the fondest memories of my life

– they might think sound funny –

were made possible by Mom and Dad,

‘cause they spent the time and spent the money.

You see, the most important lessons

helping values grow so strong,

come from loving cattle

and passing that tradition on.

In less than a month the grass will be green, temperatures will be warming, and we’ll be able to look across our pastures and see a flurry of black calves (plus two red ones) running with their tails up, exploring the bounds of the farm. 

Cody’s travel will slow and he’ll be home regularly, which means I’ll probably need to start cooking full meals again. 

The sleepless nights will be a tired memory that paid off with a healthy calf crop. 

And we’ll pass The Tradition on.

Until then, 

with every wake up call or 

dark trek across the barn lot, 

I'll Just. Keep. Swimming. 

When The Barn Is Empty

One by one and pen by pen, barns are emptying out across America.

Auctioneers tap the gavel one last time at county fairs and the pot rolls away. First-time 4-Hers are consoled by parents and seasoned showmen still find it particularly tough to say goodbye. Perhaps because ten years passes much quickly than they ever imagined it could.

State fairgrounds clear out overnight as worn out show crews make their way across the next state line just before midnight. Junior shows or open shows, they chase a white line down the interstate to the next one.

Everyone, no matter the stock or the state, returns home to a similar scenario:

An empty barn.

When the barn is empty the pens will be cleaned out one last time. The last time, and consequently, the best time. For whatever reason, this is the time that no one – not even the family griper – complains about cleaning out pens. It’s not such a bad job when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty the showbox gets emptied, too. Curled up ribbons, Capri Sun  straws, discarded show numbers, half empty aerosol cans, bottles and sprays, stale Combos and loose change: Each thing finds it’s place and the show box is shut up and moved to the corner when the barn is empty. It will be opened only once between now and next season – as the middle child searches high and low for his belt. 

When the barn is empty the alarm clock doesn’t go off nearly as early. Show kids feel rested…

….for a day. After that, they feel strangely unfulfilled when remembering that the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty show moms realize that they are finally basking in the light at the end of the tunnel. And for some reason, that light isn’t nearly as bright as it seemed two weeks ago when she wished so badly that the barn was empty.

When the barn is empty the aisle gets swept with no concern for chips or straw cluttering the way. Every piece will be just where it should be – for once. And sadly it will stay that way, no hooves dragging pieces in every direction, when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty, it’s only then that someone can appreciate routine. Starting your day with great purpose at a certain time, ending your day doing what you enjoy at the same place every evening. There is a certain comfort in routine. A comfort you may not recognize until the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty favorite songs on the radio are replaced by talking teachers, blowers are traded in for bookbags and registration papers are replaced by syllabi. School starts in no time once the barn is empty. 

When the barn is empty dads have a hard time finding a modified to-do list for the kids. No rinsing. No feeding. No Leading. He’ll tell them to organize that and clean up this - and they will. He’ll reiterate that “it better stay that way!” - and it will. He’ll say, “don’t leave that wash rack water running all day!” – and they won’t. Daily instruction is different when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty, the forks and shovels will finally be put exactly where they’re supposed to go. And they’ll stay there. The halters will be cleaned up, hung up and left to do nothing but collect cobwebs. And they’ll stay exactly as they should when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty the fans are switched off, unplugged and slowly the blades cycle one….last………..time…………………dragging out goodbye.

When the barn is empty the lights are flipped off, with nothing but the sun lighting a path from one corner to the other. There is a strange loneliness in the darkness when the barn is empty.

When the barn is empty and the door slides shut one last time, it’s sealed like a time capsule commemorating competition, disappointment, passion, and pride; high hopes for the next great one, memories of the one that just passed through. If you do it right, you’ll have more than just ribbons and trophies to carry on that memory long after the barn is empty.

Rest easy and rest while you can. Because the thing about an empty barn - no matter what feeling moves through the hollow pens - is that it doesn't last long. 

Born In A Barn

The old barns across this country could tell a thousand stories if square nails and round pegs had the power to speak; stories of progress and pride, disappointment and doubt, even of birth and death within the confines of the structure. Hundreds of hot July suns have crept across rough-hewn beams to light straw aglow and ruthless January winds have swept through cracks to blow the hair on livestock inside.

There are several old structures around our area that have become – not only members of certain families – but community monuments. Rob Allen’s big white barn on State Road 1 just north of the railroad tracks has seen countless cuttings of hay and straw move in and out of it’s interior. Kenny Stuart’s red barn on the bend at State Road 38 and Manning Road has stood as a timeless backdrop while progressive agriculture boomed with the expansion of grain legs over the years, reaching farther - and to quite larger – bins, topped with an American flag. And what about Bill Powell’s barn? The barn, where “GO TIGERS” once adorned the east side in white paint, has watched generations of Nettle Creek kids load and unload along the front entrance of the rural high school.

State to state and township by township, I bet you too can think of barns dotting the countryside which have gone from domineering focal points to quiet, background objects.

Taken in Montana

These old barns are special structures, built generations ago by local men of toil who understood the value of craftsmanship and took great pride in the work. They’ve withstood centuries of harsh weather, heavyweight livestock by the ton and progress abound.

Looking at today’s grand structures, it’s difficult to remember that they came from such a humble beginning, where it all began. What an incredible thought for those who have ever spent quiet hours inside an old barn. How remarkable that a structure comprised of so many basic raw materials, was the scene set for something so powerful: The birth of Jesus Christ.

Light shining in the bank barn at BSG

I’m quite certain that the manger in which Jesus was born was not built of dozens of 14” x 14” beams and it didn’t have three levels for livestock, equipment, hay and straw. But I am certain that it was a humble place, like many of the old local barns are today, quiet with anticipation of new life. What an incredible thought that God chose such a modest location for such an extraordinary event. A peaceful, unassuming site which was bedded with straw became the birthplace of our Savior. A quiet place built of little, created to welcome so much. What a majestic manger it turned out to be.

Taken outside Meeteetse, Wyoming

We'll soon begin calving in our old barn. It’s generally a quiet season, checking every so often on young heifers who may have trouble their first time. Like many of you, we’ll spend hours in the dimly lit barn, seeing our breath and waiting for new life to be introduced to our little part of the world. Silent prayers will be said for healthy calves and mommas; we’ll say prayers of gratefulness that we were given the opportunity to raise the cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10), even in -10º wind chill.

I was celebrating Christmas at a friend’s home a few weeks ago where I read a sign: 

Heaven is a little closer in the barn

- and I think I believe that. I also think that I’ll not drive by these old structures that now seem to sit in the background of our busy lives – perhaps zipping past a dozen on the way to work, on the way to basketball practice or on the drive home for Christmas – and not think of the particular miracle that was set in that simple scene; a wooden frame, made to welcome the world’s greatest Gift.

"Hurlbut Angus Farm" outside Raymond, South Dakota
Now RMH Livestock

I can’t count the times my Mom would yell 

at the three of us growing up, 

with hair in our faces or our rooms closely resembling a pig sty: 

“Were you born in a barn?!” 

I would always quietly reply in my mind, “No, but you raised us in one.”

My hope is that one day I'll ask the same pointed question to our children, 

“Were you born in a barn?!” 

and our kids will quietly reply in their mind, 

“No, but I know Someone who was.”

Merry Christmas from the Sankeys