Farming

I never really ventured here and choose Grant County to live. I was like most of us born here and choose to stay. My family’s beginnings were quite humble I guess as many were. My parents started farming by renting a little pasture corral and buying some calves to put in it. These calves feed consisted mostly of grass and clover pulled from along the road banks and stuffed into gunny sacks.

As time progressed they started to rent here and there until November 1, 1957. This is where my earliest memories begin. “The Year of the Cattle Drive.” It was no Chisholm Trail; however, I remember it well. I was only 5 years old at the time. My parents were renting a farm up near Hill Road. They had recently bought back my Dad’s grandparents farm where he was born and spent his early years. The farm had been lost about the time of the Great Depression.

The morning of November 1, 1957 was crisp and clear. The cattle had been corralled early that morning. Soon the help was arriving with the old 40’s era pickups rumbling down the long drive to the buildings deep in the valley. One truck would call and lead the cows while the others went ahead to close field gates and watch other openings to keep the cattle from straying from the roadway into fields. I remember riding with my mother in a ’48 Chevy pickup. Her job was to follow the back of the herd and keep them moving. As I remember she did use the horn a lot. If I stood on my knees on the seat I could see over the dash board and watch the cows moving along. If I cranked down the side window it was just perfect height to lay my arms across the sill then rest my chin on my arms and watch the men guarding the gateways as we passed by.

Hours later as the shadows began to lengthen the herd was moving slower and wearing down. Their final destinies of the fertile pastures along the Big Platte were now in sight. However the biggest obstacle now lay before them. The herd had to move over the Big Platte River. In this area of the river it was slow and as much as 7’ deep. The cattle would have to go over one of the bridges. Dad didn’t want to use the newer bridge on County A so the cattle were driven into the East pasture and would have to cross on the abandoned turn of the Century Bridge that was located several hundred yards up stream. With only a quarter mile to go the herd was tired and refused to go on to the bridge. After much prodding finally one of the older cows began to cross and the herd followed her pushing and crowding to the center of the bridges narrow deck. Minutes later the drive was over and the cattle began to graze on the lush bottom land grass. The men all gathered in front our new home reminiscing the day’s events. They were not just ordinary men, nor were they cowboys of the American West, they were our local cattleman. They had no cell phones, C.B.’s, or walkie talkies to communicate with. They were guided soly by their instincts and knowledge of the cattle they tended as the drive went flawless. My parents still live there on the home place. Dad now is 78 and pretty much retired. He is the only one alive now of the group of men who made the drive, for it was my father who spearheaded the daring attempt of the Cattle Drive of 1957.