Activist

I'm not sure why, but I cringe at the word "activist." Perhaps it's because each day in the U.S., I feel a silent attack from the growing number of animal activists who want to tell me exactly how I should run my business. While I wasn't old enough to know what it felt like during the Cold War, I'm guessing this is a similar feeling.

Or perhaps it's because to be an "activist" you have to be really passionate. You have to be unabashedly afraid to stand up and tell other people (complete strangers) that this product/idea/issue is important to you. And you have to back it up with examples (and, facts - but not everyone follows that logical thought pattern).

It could be my Norwegian upbringing (where we'd rather not cause a fuss and prefer to sit in the back of the church). Or maybe its the result of being spoon-fed "culturalism" and "diversity" in the educational system.

Regardless of how I feel about the term "activist," I am one. And you should be too. I'm a beef activist. I'm a farm activist. I have stood up for raising livestock and the rural family lifestyle since before I knew what the term "activist" meant. It's my passion, and I've told complete strangers sitting next to me on an airplane about growing up on a farm and raising beef cattle. Women's bible studies will never be the same now that they know they've got an accessible "meat-guru" they can turn to. Wondering what to grill tonight? I've got a suggestion. Beef. Whether I raised it, or someone in central Kansas did, I know they put the same diligence in producing the product that I did - maybe even more.

So are you a beef activist? Maybe it's time to start professing what you are. Don't delay. Activists have more power that you think. Read more, here.

Pioneer woman

My mom never ceases to amaze me. She grew up living in town and fell in love with a man who loved living on the farm. The farm way of life suits my mom - except when it comes to working cows. Growing up, my mom had the honored job of watching the gate while dad and I would sort off cows. That was 20 years ago. And while we still have her watch the gate from time to time, she's become an integral cog in our operation's wheel. At a time when we are celebrating high school and college graduations, I'd like to pause and celebrate my mom's graduation to: pioneer woman.

Let's set the record straight. Our farm would be a disaster if it weren't for my mom. She keeps food in the house, floors swept, and papers piled. She keeps track where we stash the tattoo digits and Estrus Alert patches we only need once a year. And she also manages the unsightly mitten/hat/glove box - a feat no ordinary woman can do. Outside of the house, she mows lawn, pulls weed and burns - you could say yardwork for my mom is like what snowboarding is for me - therapy. Mom's goals this year include demolishing a building, cleaning up all the scrap metal (and splitting profits with Becky Deutsch) and painting the bunkhouse.

But last night, Mom went through graduation. She, along with Dad and Becky learned how to insert CIDRs (pronounced "cedars," like the trees). Never in a million years did I image my mom getting this up close and personal with cows we were synchronizing. But she did. And I love her all the more because of it. Congratulations Mary - you have just graduated from City-Slicker High and are ready for Moo U!

Calvin' time

The snow is beginning to recede in Northern Minnesota, giving way to wet, squishy sod. My father and I yearn for the moisture, recognizing its role in securing a healthy stand of grass for both cows and winter feed. However, we're cautious - because we don't want mud. No, mud is likely to swallow you up, dirty the landscape, and more than once we've come right out of our boot in an attempt to get someplace too quickly.

Mud makes us slow down. That's probably why we don't care for it much. But we also don't like mud because of these newborn babes. A temperature hovering around 30º F is ideal.

I found a great poem that encapsulates the way I feel towards calving - probably the most exciting time on our farm next to "breeding" season (which I enjoy because of all the crazy jokes, stories and metaphors I come up with). It's called "Calvin' Time," by Joe Kreger. Just a snippet of it here to pique your interests:

"Sometimes, I just like to stop
and lean back on ol' Buck's rump,
watchin' all those baby calves,
as they buck and butt and jump"