The Feed Man

Several years ago I sold livestock feeds for a living. My work took me to farms and ranches all over Illinois and Missouri. It wasn’t long after I started selling feed that I learned you couldn’t just lump everyone with land, tractors and livestock in a hasty generalization, and call them all “Farmers” or Ranchers”. There were plenty of folks that had all the usual equipment, buildings and animals found on a farm, but this ownership didn’t automatically make them a good producer. I found that true ranchers and farmers set a certain standard of measure before them. A code of ethics. A dedication to be a good steward of the land while it is in their possession. Fall short of that code and no amount of land or critters made you a true blue rancher in the eyes of others. I met and befriended some great livestock producers those years, and I ran into some terrible ones. Lets be positive in this writing and talk about the best ones.

No Other Home Than This

Bob and Isetta lived not too far west of the mighty Mississippi river, in the rolling hill country of Missouri. They were far enough off the beaten path that the road went from narrow blacktop to gravel to dirt and rock. The gate to the road leading to the house was aged oak and tensile wire, and swung on rusted hinges older than many of the big trees surrounding it. The fence was board and wire, upright and in secure order. The post the gate was mounted on bore an old MFA (Missouri Farmers Association) sign that was a third rusted away and an equally aged home made sign proclaiming “STOP AT THE HOUSE” . I took it to mean “Let us know you’re here. Don’t just wander around.” Good advice, if you prefer not to dig buckshot from your hind side. This old gate was the first indication to me that these folks were solid caretakers. The latch was well mounted and secure, and when I swung the gate it floated like a leaf in the wind. Old and rusty as the hinges and pins were, they were greased and cared for. I drove through the gate.

The driveway to the house was two gravel tire trails with a high center of grass. You didn’t drive a Cadillac to visit Bob and Isetta, but years ago a Model T would have fit the road just fine. After closing and latching the gate behind me, I noticed the blue/green pastures on each side of the drive. Years of seeding and maintaining had produced beautiful grasses, waving in the breeze, that the sheep and cattle were quietly feeding on. There were no saplings or unwanted growth of any kind in these fields. Just good, productive, deep green grass. As I came closer to the house and sheds I was greeted by two barking dogs. Not killers for sure, but alarmist who wanted the folks to know that a stranger was around. I got out of the truck and spoke to the dogs. The Australian Shepherds with their multi colored coats and blue eyes were friendly enough, when you got to know them, and as is typical of most herd dogs, they followed right at your heels. As I left the truck they uttered just an occasional bark to rouse the folks.

Soon I heard a “Hello!” from a shed door. I saw a lean man in his 70’s waving me over. He was wearing blue hammer-loop pants with the knees worn white and nearly thru, and a blue long sleeve work shirt buttoned to the top even though it was a warm summer day. The felt hat on his head had to be 30 years old. He was working on an old Ford tractor that had the front axel propped up on a stump of wood. “Wheel bearings” he said as he saw me looking at his work. “ They can be stubborn” I offered. He agreed, slid off a glove to shake hands, and we introduced ourselves to each other. I told him I was a feed rep and when I called him ‘Mister’ he said “Mister was my Dad, just call me Bob.” I smiled and said “Okay” as I glanced at the shed.

The shed and other buildings were nearly 100 years old and well maintained. The doors were all straight and sturdy. The metal roofs, though showing some rust here and there, were tight. The weathered gray board and batten siding was straight and solid. “How long have you lived here Bob?” “All my life” he replied “my Dad bought this farm in 1897. He raised us seven kids here, two girls and five boys. I guess I was the only one silly enough to stay farming.” He smiled and looked out across the fields, not really focusing on anything. He wore the look men do when they see many decades behind them... and their own mortality in front of them. “Robert ?” In the half opened screen door stood his wife Isetta. “ Ready for your coffee now?” “ Comin” he replied. Bob nodded in Isetta’s direction and smiled, “Let’s go up to the house.”

As we entered the closed-in back porch Bob hung his hat on a home made peg board, just hand carved dowels protruding from a slab of wood. The places that were worn smooth indicated many years of hung up hats and coats. I carried my hat in my hand as we entered the kitchen. Three mugs were on the table, each one advertising some event, though the letters were all but worn away. “ How do you take your coffee? Isetta asked. “Just like it comes out ma’am” I replied. She grinned as she poured and glanced at her husband, “Good boy. If God had intended for coffee to have cream in it he’d of had cows produce it.” Bob chuckled as he added cream to his mug. “She gives me a hard time over this”. “Only for the last fifty years” she said. The kitchen was old, with dated linoleum and wallpaper. The cabinets were layers of paint on wood, white this time around. Everything was neat and orderly, right down to the previous meals plates in the wire dish rack sitting on the white enameled sink . “Fifty years, is that how long you’ve been married?” I asked. “Give or take a few, all of them spent right here on this farm. We got married and moved in with Bob‘s folks. Our honeymoon was a movie in town and dinner ” she grinned “You married son?” And she placed her hand on Bob’s shoulder.

Isleta’s hands were slender and feminine, like the rest of her, but her calluses and short fingernails showed that these hands had done a lot of work. Her hair was tied back in a short ponytail that fell on her ankle length dress. Her apron was a plaid print showing wear around the collar and pockets. “Yes ma’am, I am, and I have two beautiful daughters” I said in answer to her question. “ Family is everything” she stated and smiled. Bob nodded in agreement as he sipped his coffee. Bob offered that I probably hadn’t just come to talk about my personal life to strangers and asked about my products. Isetta pulled out a chair and sat down with us. I had a feeling she didn’t take the backseat when they drove to town. She soon proved me right when I started quoting production figures and yield expectations from my brand of livestock feeds. She got up and returned with a calculator. Bob asked the questions, but Isetta did the numbers. They listened carefully and politely then Bob said  "Kevin, the condition of my animals is my main concern. We have survived here all these years by maintaining the health of our animals and the health of our land”. He went on,"being the biggest producer or the fastest person to raise calves and get them to market has never been a concern for us. Having good strong breeding practices and not straining the livestock or the land to the limit is what we have tried to always keep in front of us.” “If you cherish the land…it will take good care of you”, said Isetta. Bob turned to me and asked “You got time to drive around the farm a little?” I said I would love to.

 We thanked Isetta for the coffee and headed out to an old beat up blue 1956 Ford truck. “Hop in son” Bob said. The door of the truck popped loudly as I climbed in. I noticed a faded photo of a young soldier in a World War II era uniform taped to the dusty metal dashboard. “That was our Charlie” was all he said, and we headed down a dirt road toward a creek bottom.


No Other Home Than This   ( cont.)

In the floor board  of the old truck was a can of rusty and slightly bent nails. Looking back, I realize that I never questioned then why a man would recycle nails. Pull them from discarded lumber and straighten them out for reuse. Saving nails was saving money. It's what many folks did back then. In today's disposable ( you could insert wasteful here) society a thing is bought and used without giving much thought to its longevity.  From push mowers to bicycles, repairs are seldom done anymore. It’s cheap, don’t waste the time or energy, just go to the nearest big-box store and get a new one. It hasn’t always been that easy. Years ago, straightening the crooked nail meant extended use and saving money... two  things that seem to have become old fashioned ideas.

The summer sun burned down on us as we made our dusty way along the road. Through the windshield I could see that the road was cradled in between a bluff of rock and trees on one side and a corn field green with knee high corn on the other. We soon came to an opening where a large barn stood. An old tire hung from an oak tree by a rusty old log chain. The tree limb from where the tire hung had grown over the chain long ago. Grass grew under the tree and showed no signs of the swing having been used for ages. We rounded the barn and the road dropped abruptly to a creek. A concrete bridge that also served as a dam allowed us to cross. The tires splashed through the running water flowing over the dam, throwing droplets on the hood and windshield. I pulled my arm back inside the window  of the truck  until we crossed. Upstream of the dam was a quiet pool of water that reflected beautifully the trees and sky above it. Under one tree along the creek bank was an old metal chair sitting on the flatrock, facing the water. The chair was red now, but spots of peeling paint here and there revealed the colors from its past. A single chair out here, so removed from the house? Bob must have noticed the quizzical look in my eyes. “ Isetta sits here often. For a couple of years she would sit in that chair for hours on end.” Then changing the subject he said, “there’s our best herd bull.”

The red and white bull was massive. His back was as straight as an aircraft carrier deck, his neck strong, and his muscles rippled as he walked. Bob told me they had saved up a lot of money and bought a good bull in Kansas City many years ago. This bull was an off-spring resulting from that purchase. I remarked that the cows across the fence were equally impressive. This was good stock.
“ Haste makes waste you know” Bob stated “ dad had good cows to start us, and we selected the best calves every year to build a herd. We've always kept good bulls before the cows, and Isetta keeps excellent records in her ledger.It takes time to build a good herd.” Bob gunned the old truck a little as we headed up a knob. Dust swirled in the warm summer air behind us.

A ballet of shadows and light danced on the hood of the old truck as we drove under and out of the shade of the trees along the road. The dirt road swept up and around the knob in its approach to the top. The view from the truck windows of the valley below was wonderful. The creek, pastures, and fields of varying hue spread out before us. The cattle grazed contentedly in the valley and half way up the knob. I was reminded of part of a biblical verse I have always loved,“ The cattle on a thousand hillsides are mine” the Lord said. Few things in this natural world are constant. Civilizations rise and fall, magnificent structures are erected, then decay away. But the view before me was as old as man himself. Gods creation, a masterpiece of animal and terrain, looking much as it has for thousands of years, throughout much of the earth.

“You own a beautiful place here, Bob” I said as we topped the hill. “Well” he smiled, "I've known no other home than this, but I don’t reckon I own it really. We don’t owe a red cent on it, and the deed says it’s mine, but really it’s only mine for a little while. There was my dad who owned it, then two fellows before him. I suppose the Indians laid claim to it and, before that, it was Gods alone. I’m old now, pushing 80, with a bum ticker, and it won’t be too long before it’s someone else’s. No... it’s just mine to care for while I’m here, and then I’ll pass it on.” Bob had stopped the truck and we were getting out. "To family?” I asked as I stepped on the grass hillside. He paused only slightly as he was stepping out of the truck and glanced at the picture on the dashboard. “No, I’m afraid not”.

We stood on the hill top taking in the view below. The shadow of a  large cloud passed slowly over us, turning the valley dark then light again. After a few seconds Bob spoke. “We had a son, fine boy, hard worker and smart too. We lost him when he was young.” “That picture on the dashboard, you called him Charlie, is that of your son?” I asked.

“It is” Bob started walking along the bluff. “ He enlisted in1941. He was too young without having us sign for him. He wanted to go so bad. Isetta and I agreed to let him go even though, since he was an only son, he could have stayed home. I had a couple of hired hands to help with things here so….He made it back okay, after about four years. Happiest day of our lives was seeing him walking down our road with his grips in his hand and a smile as big as Texas on his face.” Bob was smiling as he experienced that moment all over again in his mind. We stopped on a large rock protruding from the hillside. Bob reached down, grabbed a stalk of grass and began chewing on it.

“He was home about three months when he was in a bad car wreck.” Bob went on “Drunk fellow driving a log truck, of all things. Charlie made it out of the war and got killed by a drunk.” “I’m sorry” was all I could think to say. He looked out over the land with his hands in his back pockets and nodded, then turned and said “ that drunk almost took Isetta from me too. She spent two years not caring if she lived or died. Just went down to the creek where we all swam together, and sat in that old chair. Winter and summer, staring into the water. Eventually, I guess the waters there just kinda washed away the pain. One morning after breakfast she went to the shed and came back with her gardening tools. Started working in her flowers just like she used to. I knew then that she was on the mend.” We had turned around and were getting in the truck when he said “Well, whoever winds up with this place will find that we improved it. Isetta and I feel strongly that we’re put on this earth to make a difference. God gives you something, he has a right to expect you to treat it good. To build on it, not to waste it. A man's done good when he can say he left a thing better than he found it."

We headed back to the barnyard by a different access road. We discussed types of cattle, hogs and sheep. We settled on a couple of items that I sold that he thought would be beneficial to his operation. A fellow on a tractor mowing hay waved as we passed by and Bob pointed out that the fellow was his hired man. As we neared the house Isetta was exiting a white shed that I took to be a hen house. A basket under one arm, she smiled and waved to us as we approached. The chickens were nearby scratching in the pasture and yard. “My wife likes you son, I can tell. You’re honest, and she knows it.” "I try to always be” I said as we stopped next to the shed with the old Ford tractor in it. “Never stop trying, son" Bob said, getting out of the truck. He paused before he shut the door, smiled and looked me in the eyes “there is nothing more important in a feed man than honesty”.
 Words to remember and live by.

I saw Bob and Isetta  several more times before I moved on in 1985. The hog market reached historic lows and some producers back then didn't make it. Because Bob and Isetta were quite diversified they suffered no real or lasting damage.They were always such a pleasure to meet with. I had coffee and some wonderful baked items that Isetta provided each time I was there. These folks were never my biggest customer, but they were  one of my best customers.
They never failed in their belief that it was a solemn duty to protect and improve upon the land that God had given them. I loved talking to them, whether I sold a thing or not. Faithful stewards. That’s what they were. Honest, resilient, hard working, caring and kind. The sort of people that made you want to work more fervently, harder and smarter. They were of the stock that had built the west into the Western Civilization. I don’t know what happened to them after I moved. I hope they had a contented life to the end. 
With sparing uses of chemicals, good crop rotation practices and even the dedication to leave trees in fence rows to prevent wind erosion, Bob and Isetta protected their land. One  thing is sure, their farm was left better off because of their wonderful insight into land stewardship. And, without a doubt, so was I.
                                                                    
                                                                        K L  Dennie 2012