A pretty fair way to learn about life

Every day, I see the boy next door walking his goat.

The boy is 10. The goat, I’m guessing, is about five months.

A moreshiny farm animal you’ll never see than Frank the Goat, which just proves he’s very well-cared for. His lungs are strong — or should I say, loud and strong — and he holds his head proud and high, almost as proud and high as the boy as they go for one of their daily strolls down our little country road.

That’s what you do with your farm animal when you’re raising them for the fair. And with the Glenn County Fair coming up this week, and the Silver Dollar Fair just two weeks away, you can bet hundreds of young boys and girls all over our area are going through the same steps with their animals — be it goats, a lamb, a calf or a pig.

It’s the darndest thing, it really is, filled with more of life’s simple rewards and heartbreaking lessons than just about anything else I can think of. And if you don’t have tears in your eyes by the end of this column, I haven’t done my job today.

Full disclosure: I’m an old farm boy. I was part of the 4-H Club for seven years and Future Farmers of America for three.

A big part of that experience was taking an animal to the fair every summer. For me, it was always a lamb. It’s been 45 years, but I remember the drill.

First, you pick a lamb from the herd. You want one that’s healthy, the right size, good muscle tone and to a degree, manageable — although that’s a bit of a pipe dream, because sheep as a rule aren’t the most tame of critters. But spend enough time with them, and they’ll get that way. They get to know you, and you get to know them, and in no time at all, they can become more of a pet and family member than a farm animal.

(The tears are coming. Hang in there.)

The first rule of raising a lamb for the fair is, they need to make weight. The second is, they need to be in shape, because they’ll be judged and they’ll be ranked, top to bottom. The top lambs usually bring top dollar. And you don’t want to be that one kid whose lamb doesn’t make the cut on judging day.

So you exercise them. You might put them on a leash and walk them up and down the road. Or, in my case, build somewhat of an obstacle course in your corral. I remember nailing a board into place about a foot off the ground and chasing my lamb back and forth over it for several minutes every day. Regardless of the year or the lamb, they made the jump every single time. Me, I’d end up with a bad case of shinburgers at least once a year, usually to the amusement of the lamb.

More importantly, you cared for that animal, night and day, seven days a week — and you bonded with it, ultimately spending more time with it than half of your friends or family members for a couple of months. You made sure it was safe from predators. You fed it. You made sure it had fresh water. Depending on your setup, that might mean you had to haul the water to it, no easy task. You kept its corral or pen clean — meaning, you hauled away its bodily waste.

If you didn’t do those things, it would die. Talk about a lesson in responsibility.

Animals aren’t stupid. Having long since been weaned from their mothers, they figure all of this out in a hurry, and they learn to depend on you. Just as the goat next door starts bleating loudly when it’s time to eat, my lambs always knew when I was due to arrive with their food.

(We’re a few paragraphs closer to the tears.)

When it got to be fair time, you became part rancher and part beautician. It was now your job to make sure your lamb, for lack of a better term, “cleaned up nice.” This was quite a process for a lamb — you’d wash their wool, clean their ears with rubbing alcohol, put shoe polish on their hooves and brush their teeth. (Yes, with a real toothbrush.) And there was a special brush-like device called a “card” you’d use to fluff their wool, and then you’d trim it into into a nice, uniform look. None of this came natural to a lamb, of course. But by now, they trusted you, and eventually they’d sort of roll with it.

Finally you’d take them to the fair, where they’d stay in a stall for a couple of nights. You’d take them into a ring. They’d be judged. You’d be judged, on your showmanship. They’d be ranked. You’d be ranked. The final day, there would be an auction, and you’d kneel proudly in your uniform with your lamb, your companion for the past several months, in the middle of the ring as the auctioneer rattled off the numbers and just as quickly as it all began, your project was over.

And then came the tears.

It’s hard enough when you know you’re seeing your lamb, or goat, or calf or hog for the final time. It’s even harder knowing that within a matter of days, they’re going to be (for lack of a better term) “processed.” That’s why ranchers raise livestock, and as a big meat eater myself, I long ago accepted it as one of the coldest and hardest facts of life.

As a young child, you tend to not think about that part much. Until the final day, maybe. Even then, you kind of hope whoever buys it will maybe keep it as a pet or something, knowing deep down inside that’ll never happen.

Fifty years later, I remember that harsh feeling, just as I remember my best lamb and the last time I saw it.

The auction was over, and I was going to the stall to feed my lamb for the final time. Instead of finding him resting in a corner, like I usually did at the fair, he was standing in the middle of the pen, holding his head up, looking at me — almost as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He recognized me and I saw his head perk up as his eyes gleamed. He seemed happy, which made the pending goodbye all the more difficult.

I knew it was the last time I’d see him. I knew what his fate was going to be. It almost felt like he knew it was the last time he’d see me too and — forgive me for sounding hokey here, but now I’m the one about to cry — the feeling I got was that he was trying to let me know he was happy to see me, he knew he’d never see me again, and he was glad to have been my lamb.

I got that feeling once in seven years. I tend to believe it was right.

It’s a cruel reality. It really is. You work so closely and pour your sweat and love into a project — that’s an odd term for something with a beating heart, isn’t it? — and form a tight-knit bond only to lose it in the end, knowing there’s no other outcome ultimately possible for anything you’re ever going to love on this earth. You’ll live to see others die, if you’re lucky enough to last that long; and all we are left with are the best memories of times we spent with things and people we love, while also pondering the folly of time wasted on meaningless disagreements.

So today, if you’re able, I’m asking you to remember these kids and their animals and especially their feelings. Remember the fairs are coming up. Remember some of the very best of our youngsters today are still out there on the farms, raising their projects, and they can’t do any of this if other people aren’t willing to step up and financially support their work at the livestock auctions.

And be kind to them when you see them and remember on that final day of the fair, many of them are going to feel the pain of loss for the first time in their lives. There are going to be lots of tears, and kids who are going to hug their animals and never want to let them go, until they finally do — and somehow, most are going to come back the next year and do the very best they can with another animal all over again, pain be damned. Because that’s all part of life, and if that entire experience doesn’t help prepare you for the rest of your life, I’m not sure what else ever could.

It’s a special deal, and I think the world of these young, future leaders who put their hearts on the line every single year.

Heck, you’re not crying. I’m crying.