I had a perfect attendance at the sale barn all through my school years. There wasn’t a single day that my parents sold calves that I didn’t make it to watch them sell. Every fall I would skip one day of school to make sure that I was there to help wean the calves and put them on the truck to town. Many times, I would ride shotgun with the trucker to make sure that the calves got checked into the barn. I knew nearly every brand inspector, and the owner of the sale barn often jokingly asked me when I was going to quit school and come to work for him.
Big trucks have a way of captivating little boys. The sound of a Jake brake going down a grade will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up straight. I thought I was pretty cool stuff getting to ride with those guys that hauled our calves. I could look down out of that cab and see down into the passing cars. My grade school self was small enough to walk through the decks of the pot without having to duck, so often times I would get to go turn calves loose out of the jail or the nose. I’d count the calves onto the truck at the ranch, then count them off when they got to town. When the calves were put in their pens on hay and water, I would wander into the barn and make my way to the side of the ring where I’d have to tell Mr. Tom the calves had made it there and give him the list of the vaccinations that they had received. While I was waiting for my folks to get there, I’d visit the café and enjoy a pop and a candy bar that Dad had given me money for back home.
When the sale would start, I would sit there like all the other ranchers who had come to town to see their calves sell. I visited with neighbors, stopped to pet the resident blue heeler who made it his job to watch every calf go out the out gate, and wrote down weights and prices of drafts as they went through the ring. Surprisingly enough, I was usually not the only ranch kid who was present at the sale. There were often at least two or three other kids that had taken the day off school to watch their families’ calves sell. We’d sit up high in the bleachers and pretend that we were big time ranchers waiting for our big payday.
When my parents calves would walk into the ring, I became dead silent. I hung on every bid that the auctioneer would cry and kept tabs on which buyers were bidding. This was my Super Bowl. I took pride in those calves and was proud of the product we were bringing to town. Some things never change, throughout college I’d follow the sale online as I sat through a lecture. I’ve been blessed to watch calves of my own walk through the ring, and now as a parent, my kids look forward to going to the sale barn when we ship calves too. Some things never change, my son loves sitting in the cab of the semi, smiles big when he talks to the owner of the sale barn, and watches each draft of calves with great intensity. Ranching is a family business, one tradition passes from father to son. That’s all for this time, good luck to all the sellers this fall. Keep tabs on your side of the barbed wire and God Bless.