Calf Pen Politics

Another presidential election is rapidly bearing down upon us. As in previous elections, polls show that the candidate many Americans prefer is the one named None Of The Above.     

Why is this? What is the cause of this widespread voter dissatisfaction? The answer lies in one of the most basic, essential pieces of farm equipment: the manure spreader.     

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “OK, he’s going to launch into some lame analogy about how politicians are always spouting off about this or that and how it compares with the operation of the aforementioned you-know-what slinger.” Well, I’m not. That would simply be much too redundant.     

When I was a kid, we were aware of only one way to fill our cursed manure spreaders and that was by hand. (We actually used pitchforks, but you probably get what I mean.)     

Every Saturday, my two younger brothers and I would suffer through the same routine: Just when “The Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Hour” was starting, Dad would collar us and forcibly march us out to a calf pen or a pigpen that was in need of our sanitation services. The empty manure spreader would already be parked beside the pen, and Dad had somehow managed to scrounge up a pitchfork for each pair of hands.     

We knew that there was no use in arguing about the intrinsic value of performing this odious chore. Dad would have simply told us that pitching manure helps build character. We secretly wished that we had less character and more cartoon characters in our lives.     

Thankfully, Dad was a big believer in taking frequent rest stops. He would lean on his pitchfork and rub the small of his back and suggest that maybe it was time for a breather. During these breathers, he might pull a can of Prince Albert tobacco out of his bib overalls pocket and manufacture a “roll your own” cigarette.

It was a fascinating ritual to watch: the careful selection of a cigarette paper from the little book, forming the flimsy paper into a tiny trough, filling it with tobacco and sealing its edge with a quick lick. Lighting the cigarette with a wooden match and the inevitable “patooey” of stray tobacco crumbs being expelled following the first puff.

While Dad smoked and relaxed, we would try to extend the break by talking with him about what was going on in our lives or about world events. We didn’t realize it at the moment, but those were quality times.      

After a few minutes’ rest, we would resume our toils. As we pitched manure, we would ruminate on our conversation so that when the next breather came, we would have something new to contribute. In this manner, a chat that should have lasted only a few minutes took all day to complete.     

It wasn’t a bad system, really. Thanks to the lack of conversation while muscling manure into the spreader, we ended up doing a lot more thinking than talking. It’s safe to say that many would benefit from following such a system.     

These days, life whips by at warp speed. We are expected to do more and do it faster, yet somehow feel fulfilled. We get lunch at the drive-through so that we can drive and eat and talk on the cell phone all at the same time. We have gained much, but what have we sacrificed?     

We are relegated to forming our opinions based on whatever the internet decides to feed us. A shocking percentage of Americans will decide how to vote based solely on the verbal gibes tossed out by the talking heads that appear on cable TV or on the internet. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.     

If I were king of the world, I would decree that each family have a manure spreader, and a calf pen that needs weekly cleaning. Every Saturday, Dad and the kids would spend quality time getting an aerobic workout instead of vegging out in front of the TV or the iPad. And along the way, the kids might actually learn something about what their dads think. More important, they might learn how to think for themselves.     

But I am not king of the world. Fortunately, I can offer an alternative solution.     

You see, I have an old gambrel barn that could use a good cleaning, and my manure spreader is standing by, empty and waiting. I will provide the pitchforks and will take the spreader out to the field once it’s filled.

But you’ll have to bring your own can of Prince Albert.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy,” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.