43
My home town of Milk River, Alberta is a small place just north of the Canada/US border.
Tucked into the heart of farming/ranching country.
Generational farms and ranches surround it on all sides.
The Milk River, itself, meanders quietly through.
Cue: Suspenseful Music.
A peaceful little oasis, perfect for raising families and finding harmony.
In the sixties (my time), all the homes built on the edges of the town looked out, quite literally on farm fields.
And, on the west side of town, one feed lot.
Okay, yes, I will admit that said feed lot was across the tracks and behind the seed-cleaning plant.
But, let’s face it. It was still very, very close to the town.
Closer than some of said houses.
And older than most of them.
My dad raised bulls in that feed lot.
It was…handy.
I should maybe explain—for any of you not familiar with cattle feed lots—erm…what they are.
A feed lot is simply a large series of corrals in which cattle are fattened.
Think of Hansel and Gretel.
To the same purpose.
Without a grieving Papa. Much less candy.
And no witches.
Moving on . . .
Beef cattle are, twice daily, fed a mixture of grains and yummy nutritious stuff. (Again, no candy: see above.)
The cattle happily slurp this up, then wander aimlessly around the corrals… and grow.
When they reach a certain size, they are sold either as breeding stock.
Or as dinner.
In a cow, as in any living being, sustenance goes in one end.
Something else comes out the other.
Let’s be classy and call it ‘effluent’.
A poorly-run feed lot will leave said effluent.
For years.
A well-run operation cleans it away.
Every spring.
Ours was a well-run operation.
And said cleaning was a… smelly proposition.
And now the feed lot’s proximity to the town comes into play . . .
Early one spring, just after thaw, Dad decided it was time to clean the ol’ corrals.
He hired a specialized team, who moved in with loaders and trucks.
In no time, the corrals were tidy and clean.
The evil-smelling ‘gleanings’ were spread on a nearby field as fertilizer.
Job finished. Money paid. Hands shaken.
Dad went back to his regular day…
Now, the town of Milk River has one distinctive anomaly.
Oh, it has beauty.
It has peace and prosperity.
It also has wind.
Mostly from the west.
That springs up . . . whenever.
Usually at the worst, possible time.
Within minutes of that field being spread, the west wind started to blow.
I probably don’t have to tell you where the accompanying smell went.
Fortunately, the pain was short-lived.
The hot, dry wind’s influence proved to be twofold. Yes, it was causing acute respiratory ickiness; but it also dried the effluent quickly.
The smell died.
Within 12 hours, Milk River’s residents could once more happily breathe the sweet, clean air.
But the damage had been done.
The town secretary, unused to the common smells of ranch life in the spring, decided to take matters into her own hands.
She wrote a letter.
On town stationary.
The letter informed my dad that “under no circumstances would he be allowed to operate a feed lot in close proximity to the town.”
Dad stared.
Seriously?
The feed lot had been there since time began.
Certainly since Milk River had been there.
Was he really expected to shut his business/livelihood, down?
He went to the mayor.
Who went to the council.
Who went to the secretary.
Apparently the letter had been written without the authorization of any…erm… authority.
Dad didn’t have to stop using the feed lot.
Whew.
Something about it being an old established business…?
But new procedures were introduced. By him.
After that, he did try to be a bit more judicious about what he spread and where.
Pun intended.
This month’s word count number is: 43
It was chosen by: Mimi!
Check out my fellow bloggers and see how they used the number!
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We get that odor here sometimes in the spring, we live nowhere near any farms, but the smell does carry. Maybe I should write a letter.
ReplyDeleteWhen I lived in Wichita, Kansas in the 1970's, the city was growing and new housing developments were springing up on former farmland. Which was next to current farmland. Which...yup. Those letters went out from people who had just moved, knowingly, onto developments in the country, but never realized just how their food was grown. And the by-products thereof.
ReplyDeleteEveryone should have to work on a farm for one summer in their lives. It would be good for all of us.
ReplyDeleteI love the Hansel and Gretel analogy. ;) So many people don't understand that bucolic can smell very differently from what it looks like in the photo!
ReplyDelete