Being cold (or chilly, or cool, depending on your location) today, Amanda reminded me of a story I told her on returning home from Hudson Pines. For those of you who don’t know, I spent this past July through March living in Sleepy Hollow (yes, that Sleepy Hollow), NY. We moved there, because she accepted a job upon completing her Ph.D. That’s also why we’re now in Detroit. I never thought I’d live in New York (or Detroit for that matter). Within a week of moving to NY, I found a job at Hudson Pines Farm.
A Little Background:
Sleepy Hollow is located about 25 miles north of New York City in Westchester County. This is not farm country. President and Hillary Clinton live in Westchester. Martha Stewart lives in Westchester. The Rockefeller (yes, that Rockefeller) family estate is in Westchester. Hudson Pines Farm (HPF) is a Simmental cattle ranch owned by David Rockefeller, current family patriarch. Therefore, my employer was David Rockefeller and I worked on the Rockefeller estate every day.
HPF occupies property owned by Mr. Rockefeller. This 3000 acre property is a patchwork of pastures, streams, and woodlands connected by 20-plus miles of carriage trails. The property is also connected to a state park and an agricultural center. Most of the trails, the agricultural center, and the state park are open year round to the public. Most of them jog or hike and ignore the farm and cattle with only the slightest awareness and annoyance of a tractor blocking their path. To them, taxi cabs are more common than cows. Check out my article on visiting Hudson Pines Farm if you want to know more about it.
The story Amanda reminded me of is simple, but it illustrates just the reason I’m writing this blog. It’s a Friday afternoon in October, and like most days, I’m busy washing/rinsing 2 of approximately 50 heifers that day. Our wash-rack is indoors, but it was warm that day, so the barn doors were open. The barn sits approximately 25 yards from the trail that accesses it, and there are signs at the end of the drive that expressly state, “Private Property. No Trespassing.” However, with 20-plus miles of trails, people get lost (or have to pee) and inevitably make their way up to the barn.
These are not rural people. To them, the farm, and the cattle in particular, are there to amuse them. In fact, we, as farm employees, are there to answer questions about the cattle. They see us more as zookeepers than production farmers. And, on this Friday in October, one of them came strolling up the drive.
She was a non-descript woman, probably 60, with short salt-and-pepper hair, the build that comes from bearing multiple children, and a light sweater with horizontal, yellow stripes. As stated, almost none of these people have any experience with livestock, let alone production beef cattle. She was no exception. The cattle are tied to a gate facing out of the barn. I’m rinsing them, back-to-front, hose spraying out the barn door. We know what happens next. She walks directly up to the gate, the heifers leap backwards, and I turn off the hose.
“Oh! I scared them didn’t I?” she says as I motion her to the side door and re-position the heifers in the wash-rack. I’m annoyed. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. It’s over here.” I show her to the bathroom.
There’s a fine line between seriousness and rudeness. I’ve never been as close to it as I was at Hudson Pines. I contemplate whether to continue working or to wait for her to return. I wait. She returns.
She asks a question, “What do you do with the calves in the winter?” Apparently I’m here to answer questions. Apparently I look like I’m waiting for her. I should have gone back to work.
“Nothing…” We calve in the fall, so in fairness to her, there were some rather small calves in the pastures.
“Don’t they get too cold?” she asked.
“No…” I’m just waiting for it now.
“Isn’t that mean to just leave them out in the cold and snow?” she asks. Like I said, there’s a fine line between seriousness and rudeness. I take a moment, a deep breath, and begin.
“They like to be outside. They stay cleaner. They get exercise. They have plenty to eat. They even grow an extra-long winter coat to keep them warm. And, if it gets too cold or we have too much snow, we might bring them inside for a day or two.”
This satisfies her and she thanks me, walks out the door, and strolls down the path. I really wanted to say (sarcastically), “We just let them freeze if it gets too cold. Survival of the fittest, you know. And, when it warms up a bit and they thaw, we butcher them.” Really? She thought we would just let them freeze to death? She couldn’t have thought that through? She thinks we’re that cruel?
I cut myself short.
I’ve let my annoyance get in the way of an opportunity. As people involved in agriculture, as rural people in such proximity to urban life, we have a responsibility to represent our culture in a meaningful way. I didn’t handle the situation poorly, but I could have handled it much better. I could have educated her about beef production, and small farms, and handling practices. I could have pointed her to examples of the depth and passion people have for livestock production, and moreover, the passion with which they care for their animals. I could have explained how we check on cows every two hours when they’re close to calving. I could have explained how we treat injuries and illnesses. I could have explained the monetary value of the animal as a product and how important nutrition and wellness are to that product.
I did none of that. I was cold to her—not the same way I was cold today in downtown Detroit, but the feeling must have been similar. She was interested, and curious, and warm. I was distant, distracted, and cold. I guess I need a stocking cap to warm up my brain.