Artificial Insimination

Working at a tourist attraction can, sometimes, offer us average citizens a chance at fame – well at least 30 seconds on the nightly news or local morning show, but still a chance is a chance. And one morning my chance came.

It was a slow day at the park. A perfect day to perform some unusual tasks that sometimes just need to happen on a farm to make it run the way you want it to. Because of the scarcity of these tasks they sometimes attract an audience.

This audience held the obvious – the farm workers, but also and surprisingly included the big whigs of the park. There they were in their shirt and ties leaning against the fence next to my muddy hem. It was fun and relaxing. Just a quiet morning at the park.

But I will confess that I didn’t really know what was going on. There were a lot of big medical terms being thrown around that I couldn’t really follow. All I knew was that some guy was coming to work on our milk cow. As that “guy” began unpacking his supplies I started putting the pieces together.

There was a glove. A long glove. Long enough to stick up a cow’s rear end and reach to her…well to be honest I still don’t really understand exactly where he reached so I’m going to leave it at that. He then pulled out a large syringe and asked us to tie her up.

I did as I was told and then quietly slithered to toward the back of the audience not too sure I wanted to witness what I didn’t even understand was happening.

Lynn held up the tail to allow free passage of the glove hand who held something from the syringe and in it went. The quiet morning had been broken.

Over the course of the event I picked up what had happened. Insinuation. But I still couldn’t remember the word, or even pronounce it. So when the channel 5 newscast lady came over to me a few hours later and asked me what I think is exciting about my job. I told her the first exciting thing that I could remember about that day. And for 15 seconds on live camera I just kept my innocent little pioneer smile on as I explained that I watched a cow get pregnant that morning. Her face, was classic, along with the pause.

“And that wraps up my not even 30 seconds of fame, back to you Bob.”

Horse Whisperer

Let’s start out by saying that Robert Redford is hot – even for an old man. I had watched the movie the night before for the first time and LOVED it. Of course wishing that I could have married him myself, but oh well, such is life.

But even if I couldn’t escape to the Big Sky country on a horse and be whisked away by the romance of it all, I was still inspired.

It was time to hook up the horses for the horse wagon ride. We had rented some Clysdales for the season, but they weren’t too willing to work that day. So Casey and Troy were taking turns at trying to catch them. Their tactic? Chase them, with a rope, and try to lasso them (which, may I point out, was obvious that they had never done before.) I watched stressed. It was my responsibility to make sure everything was up and running at the right time.

Suddenly I remembered an image from the movie. There he was (looking as hot as ever) sitting in the large field patiently waiting for the scared horse to come to him.

I went inside the barn and grabbed a halter. I walk back out and suddenly am disgusted with how stupid these boys look trying the same tactic over and over. And over. Proving, again, the density of the sex. I politely tell them to stop what they’re doing and give it a rest. I further instruct them to go put their ropes away and to stand next to the barn so that they will stop freaking the horses out. They mockingly obey me.

I walk out to the middle of the pasture and crouch down – just as I had seen Mr. Redford do. And I wait.

Luckily it didn’t take as long as it did in the movie – after about three minutes here comes one of the horses. He curiously meanders over to me and begins to sniff around. I reward him with a handful of oats, slip the halter on, stand up, walk towards the barn and with a flirty grin pass the boys.

Thanks for the tip Robert – lets keep this one our little secret.

What did you say?!

Have you ever asked yourself or someone else what century they would choose to live in? Well, mine, hands down, would have been mid-1800s. Lets make it official and say I wish I could have been born in 1830, in New York. And that ideally I new this guy named Joseph Smith, and immediately accepted what he was teaching. This would force me to be one of the thousands of pioneers who would have crossed the plains.

Yes I wish I could have been there. The dresses, the trial, the endless walking, the dirt, the straining muscles, the lack of indoor plumbing. Yes, all of it.

That was one of my favorite parts of working at the park. I got to pretend, and act like I was a real pioneer. Bloomers and all!

Dressed in my plaid and calico red dress and apron – bloomers included! (Thanks mom) I was happily sitting in the calf stall letting little Logan suck on my fingers. As a family wanders over I, being the willing customer servicewoman that I am, want the four children to experience the sensation of having their fingers sucked on by a calf. They would love it.

So I lure Logan to the side of the fence and show them what I was doing. I eagerly attempt to convince the city-slicker children how cool cows are with an excited declaration: “Look! It will f______ on your singers.” (I’ll let you fill in the blank). Yep. That is what that little, sweet, bonnet-wearing “12” year-old pioneer girl just said. To the whole family.

Flustered and hoping that the family didn’t catch my blunder I try to recover by saying, even louder. “F______ on your singers.” And once more for good measure as I struggle to pull myself out of a lost battle, “I mean f_________ on your singers!”

Well by this time the dad couldn’t hold his laughter any longer and I, with a face brighter than my calico-plaid dress climbed the fence and beeline it to the barn, leaving the mistaken words hanging in the air.

Still to this day – the most embarrassing moment of my life.

Junior High or a Junior in College

Okay, so I may be a little behind on the game. For example, I didn’t have make-up in my daily routine until I was 24. Okay so I am really behind. That’s not the point. The point is that I look young for my age. Make-up or not. And you know what, I’m okay with it. I actually love it.

Whenever someone acts surprised by my age and then embarrassedly tries to cover it up with some lame comment like – “Oh, you’ll be so glad when you’re my age that you look so young.” I try to comfort them by explaining that I took it as a compliment not as an offense.

In the 1800’s pioneer women usually began courting around the age of 14. At this point they would ditch the full-body apron, the braids and the bloomers and replace them with full-length dresses, curled hair, and petticoats. Well if I’m not wearing make-up till I’m 24, I am definitely not going to be wearing a “big girl” dress while climbing fences and milking cows all day. So yes, I played the part of a pioneer girl. A young pioneer girl. But I didn’t realize just how young I appeared until one day I was asked the question –

There I was, leading the oxen and answering the same questions I did everyday – of course with a smile on my face, when an older gentleman. No, you know what he was an old man and that is what I am going to call him. Anyway, this old man asked me what Junior High I went to. Now, like I’ve said my age has always been mistaken but this was the farthest off anyone had been.

I replied to him that I had attended Clayton Middle School but that that was ten years ago, since I now was 22 years old and a Junior at Brigham Young University.

There was no recovering for him. So lets just state the facts – He was old, and I look very young. Facts are facts. Some are just harder to face than others.

He Had No Idea

It was mine and Jeffy’s turn to take the boys out. As Jeffy headed to the tack room for the curry brushes I grabbed the goad and walked around Chance’s 2500 pound body. Stopping at the back I began prodding him to stand up. Being the big boy that he is it always took him a couple heavy rocks to get his momentum. After the third rock he finally stood up. And right there, on his 2500 pound behind was a rabbit.

As you may imagine this rabbit had, shall we say, lost its shape? Yep. It had been sat on. The poor once fluffy critter who frequented our barn had sadly been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Its tiny frame didn’t stand a chance. As soon as its ox neighbor decided to sit, that little bunny had taken its last breathe (probably of surprise).

I saw its flattened corpse stick just long enough for my brain to register that a foreign object was attached to Chance’s butt and then, quite suddenly, it hit the ground.

“Jeffy!” I could hardly get his name out through my laughter. “Hurry! Come here!” Jeff hops the fence, (bending those poor hinges just a bit more) and runs over to me. “What?” All I can do is point. “What is that?” Observing the flat fur with an enlarged eyeball and guts splattered out of one side he finally registered what it was. I finally get out that it had been stuck to Chance’s butt and had fallen off when he stood up.

I told him to pick it up and put it in the garbage can. Why should he? Well 1. I am his “boss”, and 2. He is the guy! He refuses. So I try Troy, who by now had been filled in. But he also refused. So, of course, I step up to the plate and grab the now quite stiff rabbit and throw it in the trash.

Poor, poor rabbit. And the greatest part is that Chance had absolutely no idea.

It Is Official

Suddenly, as my ’95 Toyota Corolla attempted to navigate the mud-filled path in front of the barn, it hit me – I am an official cowgirl! True I don’t own a single cow, a horse, or even my own pair of chaps, but I was hired to train cattle to become oxen. If that isn’t a cowgirl I don’t know what is (except of course, the girls who go round up cattle in Montana and Wyoming for their family cattle ranches, but still). I now could officially check off one of my dreams. I was a cowgirl.

In order to complete this transformation from complete city-slicker to cowgirl I performed necessary rituals. The first one – new country mix. I titled it: “Because I Am A Cowgirl.”

Next step in the transformation – new gear. I finally had a legitimate excuse to buy a Carhart jacket. And pants. And gloves. And a pair of socks. There are two official Carhart stores in the nation, and yes Salt Lake City happens to possess one of them. Lucky me!

Along with a new jacket, pants, gloves, and pair of socks I also bought a pair of Boggs. And in case you don’t know what those are they are neoprene slash plastic boots – basically farmer boots and if you don’t believe me go walk into your nearest IFA store and check them out – all farmers where them.

So yes, I now, am officially and completely, a cowgirl.

Gone Country

I’ve tried several times to pinpoint the origins of this passion I possess. It could have started in Montana where my family lived in the country during my elementary years.

It may have grown from the Sunday evening walks my family took over to nearby This is the Place Heritage park – acres dedicated to re-enacting and educating about pioneer life.

It could have entered my mind on one or all of the three pioneer treks I took as a youth as I walked the same dusty trails of my forefathers.

Perhaps it grew as I read a nine book novel series about Mormon Pioneers on Friday and Saturday nights in my apartment during my first year of college.

Like I said, I don’t know where this desire and dream came from, but it came, and literally changed my life. I am a city girl, gone country.