Folktales, picnics & head-bangers
Head to head.
Have you ever been to a combine derby? It’s like a regular demolition derby … only … yep, you guessed it: they drive combines instead of cars. The combine derby was held Sunday afternoon on the last day of the fair.
Farmboy is still recovering. He didn’t find the combine derby amusing. He was horrified … shocked … and filled with righteous anger.
“Papa!” he yelled in disbelief, “they’re wreckin’ their combines!”
As any good Farmboy knows, combines cost an arm, a leg and sometimes the farm … who in their right mind would intentionally destroy one!
These guys, apparently (don’t try this at home, folks).
By the way, if you lose your head, you’re out.
We had a picnic.
Sunday morning was the cow dress-up contest. Oldest daughter came up with this theme on her own, ants and all. Her heifer didn’t care for the ants we stuck to her forehead, but aside from a pest problem, the picnic was a success.
After the picnic, we enjoyed an American folktale.
Allow me to introduce Paulette Bunyan and her blue ox, Babe.
Thanks to some blue hairspray, we turned a Brown Swiss into quite a babe. Thankfully it washed out easily with a little shampoo. The best part? She won first prize and $15. She wore a very big smile the rest of the day.
And would you believe … two people actually stopped in the barn, stared at the calf and asked, “What kind of cow is that — is that really her coloring?”
I was very, very tempted to say, “Oh yes, she’s a Belgian Blue!”
But I didn’t. And I didn’t laugh out loud, though I wanted to.
Instead, it was a teaching moment. Everyone ought to know for sure that there are no blue cows. Or strawberry cows. Or chocolate milk cows.
However, you will find brown chicken, brown cow (s) occasionally (forgive me — I couldn’t resist).
By the way, have you ever seen a Belgian Blue bull?
They’re like the body builders of the cattle world. They’re known for extreme muscling. Trust me … they don’t produce the kind of steak that would make you sing, Love Me Tender, Love Me True. Think more along the lines of shoe leather … pencil erasers … tire treads. There’s not enough fat in the meat to produce great flavor and optimum tenderness. But they’re cool to look at … I’ll give ’em that.
And as you’ll notice, they are not blue.
No blue cows. Babe is just a folktale.
I’m sorry to disappoint. I like to believe in fairytales, too.
Well … this is the final post from the county fair.
What shall I bring you tomorrow? No idea, yet — but something’s bound to pop up.
Until then, I leave you with this:
I NEVER saw a Purple Cow,
~ Gelette Burgess