Memories of 4-H & the Fair

   I turned 10 years old in July of 1961 which meant I could join 4-H. I recall going over to the home of Lyle and Eunice Vogt later that year for my first meeting. Lyle was a leader of this club, composed of kids from farm families residing in Conway Township.

    That winter my father brought home a Holstein calf that he’d purchased for $100—a princely sum in those days—from our neighbors, Cleo and Marguerite Donal. We had Holsteins on our farm, my grandparents had Holsteins on their farm, but none of them were registered. This calf possessed that distinction. While you could show grade cattle, like ours, at the Fowlerville Fair, competing with a registered animal improved your chances and also gave you additional classes that you could participate in during fair week.

    Since my 4-H dairy calf was born before January 1, it was classified as a senior heifer. A calf born after that date (but prior to the fair) was considered a junior heifer.

  

   Registered cattle have long names, incorporating the names of the dam and sire and other ancestors, sort of like the European nobility. My calf’s moniker included the word Queen, so I nicknamed her Queenie.

   Now there was initial excitement in having this calf, but I soon learned that a good deal of work went into preparing an untrained animal for the fair.

   I found Queenie to be a difficult challenge. My efforts that spring and early summer were fraught with frustration. She had gained some size during the winter, and I vividly recall her dragging me across the yard. I would hang onto the halter strap as she took off at a brisk gallop, quickly losing my balance and sliding along the grass and then the graveled driveway on my belly. I did not wish to let go, since chasing after her (I had discovered) was a time-consuming endeavor.

   Needless to say, I did not pursue an ambitious training schedule since being dragged across the grass and gravel did not top my list of enjoyments. Eventually though the two of us reached an understanding. I’d walk slowly backwards, and Queenie would walk slowly forward. When I stopped, she’d stop. After that progress was made, we worked on the idea that I might want her back legs positioned one way when we stopped and then I’d re-position them a minute or so later. At the same time, I had to make sure the front legs were evenly aligned. I also worked on keeping the calf’s head up high and her back straight. Above all else, I needed to keep my calf from being fidgety. It was a tall order, but I did not question the necessity of any of these requirements; it was what was expected if one wished to show a heifer at the fair.

    That expectation still exists. When you think about the matter, it is amazing the hoops that adults make kids jump through. In addition to having to train an animal that, by instinct, is wild and unruly, the kid has to worry about where a judge is standing when the animal is set up. And, just as the positioning is perfect and the animal is behaving, the judge decides to take a stroll, forcing the kid to push or pull his cow and undo all of that good work. It’s called showmanship and highly valued in 4-H circles.

   While I had been busy teaching Queenie how to behave, I had neglected to clean and brush her on a regular basis. The weekend before the fair, my procrastination came back to haunt me. The calf was filthy, and had yellow stains on both knees (which started out as white) and another one on the back leg. Of course I was not the first 4-H kid, nor would I be the last, faced with an unsightly animal just prior to the start of judging. Which is why 4-H mothers are held in such high esteem.

   Along with warning you about your underwear when you go out in public, a mother does not wish for her son or daughter to show up at fair with a dirty beast. So my mom came to the rescue, helping with the shampooing and scrubbing, followed by the brushing and combing as I struggled to finish ahead of the deadline.

    Cattle, like other livestock, also require trimmed hooves. However, there’s a risk in cutting too much off the tips of the toes and having the cow limp around on sore feet, something you didn’t want happening in the show ring. Duane Westmoreland, who worked at Rainbow Farms and had been showing cattle for years, came over with his clippers and helped us out; he did so that year and in all of the ensuing ones while I was in 4-H.

     The Fowlerville Fair in the early 1960s did not officially start until Tuesday. However, the Black and White Show (an event held for exhibiters with purebred Holsteins) took place on Monday. The various classes for participants (about half of which were 4-H’ers) were categorized by the age of the cow. In addition, a special showmanship class was offered to anyone under 21 years of age. So in 1962, at the age of 11, I got my first taste of being in the show ring by competing in the Senior Calf Class and the Junior Showmanship Class.

       When I launched my 4-H career, there were still a lot of small dairy farms in Livingston County. Most of those places had Holstein cattle, so the Black and White Show and the 4-H competitions for this breed were crowded events.

     An exhibitor was expected to wear a white shirt, white pants, and a black tie. That week, just before the judging started for that day, Paul Grill (a friend and fellow 4-H’er) and I would walk over to the bathroom. There we’d change into our show outfits. Of course there were other occasions when he or I stopped by.

    A sign at the entrance requested that those of us using the facility “remember to tip the porter.” He was the gentleman who kept the place clean. Paul and I were not flush with money, so our tips tended to be sporadic. I always nodded to the man as we left, feeling guilty when I didn’t drop a coin into the cigar box.

    What little money we did possess was intended for the carnival. One of the perks of being in 4-H was that you could sneak up to the midway for a ride or to play a game of chance, then rush back to the barn before your parents, club leaders, or some other supervising adult realized you were missing in action.

    I don’t recall that I dazzled any judges in my inaugural year. As I said, there was a lot of competition. However, the following year I enjoyed a memorable accomplishment. On the day after the 4-H dairy judging took place, the Michigan Artificial Breeders Cooperative sponsored a show. It was open to anyone who had a heifer or cow that was the offspring of this form of insemination. A number of dairy herdsmen with registered cattle chose to use artificial breeding, selecting particular bulls that they felt would improve certain traits in their herd, boast milk production, or create some desired diversity.

    L.D. Dickerson was the MABC technician at that time, so he and his wife ran the show. He was also one of our club leaders, focusing on the kids (his included) who showed beef cattle.

   Queenie (who competed as a senior yearling that second year) was eligible, so I entered the competition in the Junior Division. I was 12 years old. The number of participants was smaller than the large 4-H Holstein classes, so I had cause for hope. Still, I surprised and then elated when the judge motioned me to line-up in first place. I held my breath until he walked over to the microphone to explain his decision, realizing only then that I wouldn’t be put further down the line. Meanwhile, L.D. came over and handed me a small trophy for winning the yearling class.

   They had already finished the calf division, so I waited until the cows were judged. After that, those of us who had won our respective classes competed in the championship round for the title of Junior Showman. I figured the cow would have the advantage, but I was wrong. The judge once again motioned for me to line up in the top spot. I got an even bigger trophy.

    To say my mother was happy would be an understatement. She probably annoyed a few of the other parents with her jubilant reaction. Marguerite Donal was in attendance and took a photo. Since Queenie had come from the Donal herd, she took equal pride in the win.

   That year the fair took place during the tail end of the wheat season. My father had taken off Monday and Wednesday to watch the judging and help us prepare for the judging; however, on this afternoon he needed to finish combining a field at Uncle Bill’s place on Sharpe Road.

   My mother drove me over to the field to tell him what had happened and show him the two trophies.

    For a boy or girl--used to the ordinary routines of farm life, school, and church--the annual fair was the stuff of wide-eyed wonder, and eagerly anticipation.  While the 4-H activities kept us busy, providing structure and responsibility, even so we got a chance to enjoy some free rein. A rare occurrence. It was a heady feeling.

   Many 4-H kids, myself included, end up with a little carnie in their blood. It stays with us, even as the years pass by. As a member of 4-H, I tended to the needs of my animal, fed and watered her, removed the manure from the bedding, helped keep the walkways clean, washed my heifer each morning, and did all the preparations prior to  judging. As a member there were also the assorted special events that filled the week, more so nowadays than when I was a youngster. Most of all there was the fun I had with friends and other club members.

   Still, just beyond the livestock barns—beckoning like an alluring temptress--loomed the bright and gaudy colors of the rides and game booths, the blinking lights, the loud music, the voices of the barkers, the smells of French fries and brats, the sweet tastes of cotton candy and caramel apples, the people yelling and laughing on the rides, the sound of the speeding cars in the dare devil show, and the voice of the horse race announcer proclaiming “And here they all come!”

     I remember that first year, loading Queenie on the back of Loris McCullum’s livestock truck, then climbing up into the passenger side and riding with him as he headed from our place to the fairgrounds. It was a long two miles. I remember the excitement I felt as we drove past Rainbow Farms, and I caught the sight of the Ferris wheel and the rest midway outlined against the sky. It was a stirring view.

It still is.