I was a part of a community that was mostly composed of farmers and ranchers. Although we never called our lifestyle or way of living “ranching”. Every family in our community lived a similar lifestyle. Land, cattle, haying, farming was a part of who we were and the way we lived. I often drift back to my own childhood when I drive down the road and I see the farmer spreading the manure across their fields, or when I feel the dirt in between my toes when I am working in my garden, and heaven forbid when I have to drive down a graveled road. (haha!) There is one thing that happened a lot in our home and that was the fact that we had to communicate to get the work done. Interpersonal communication happened time and time again when there were chores to be done. Here are a few phrases I heard often:

Get out and get those cows fed!

Did you shut the gate?

How many heifers calved out tonight?

The cows are out again.

communicating, relaying messages and reporting numbers about how many sick calves needed to be doctored or whom to purchase the hay from were important aspects of our daily lives. 

At this time I ran out into the pasture behind our house. I am carefree running through the backyard (which isn’t typically something I do-Run) Haha!) with no shoes on. My sisters and I are racing to jump over the fence and as I sprint a few yards I land my foot right into a temperate brown pile of something that oozed in between all of my toes. I took a moment to revel in the warmth that enveloped my whole foot. I realize I just landed right into a freshly dropped cow-pie. I am not  grossed out by the thought that my foot is drenched in crap. I simply thought to myself, “This is nice, I think I’ll stay here for a moment and imagine that this is my first pedicure.” 

Without a doubt I enjoy exploring my surroundings and living in the moment. I also enjoy wandering into our outbuildings that are scattered around the back of our home. The calving shed appears like it could have been the first log cabin of the late Colonel Thomas R. “Hamer”, who the town was named after in 1893. I knew it wasn’t. The shed is just old and it is where the new heifers calve out their new born babies. The smell of the straw penetrates my nose as it is scattered on the dirt floor. The straw gives a nice warm bed for new calves and their mama’s to rest. The calf puller’s are hung up on the right side of the wall with a pair of extra long gloves slung over them. A partial bottle of dove dish soap sits in the dark corner of the dark cattle shed. 

I wander into the garage that is attached to the front of the shed and I conjure up in my mind what kind of old greasy mechanic used to live in the old garage. Tools are scattered across the workbenches and there are random nuts and bolts that fill the doors that are caked with black grease. This is where I learned about W-D 40. Last week I watched dad spray W-D 40 into some rusty vise grips and it magically started working again. I suddenly became overzealous with squirting it into the spokes in my bike tires, I drenched my chain and my bolts on the pedals down with the grease in the blue spray can. I even considered greasing my own joints in hopes that I could ride faster than my sister. The old and tired garage has a floor that is only partially paved. I am consistently irritated that it is partially surfaced. Who would do a job and not finish it? I can’t stand to walk on the  greasy dirt that is on the front half of the garage because I am sure there is a nail or two lurking in the unpacked dusty ground. Oil changes, W-D 40, and mechanic-ing is what this garage looks like and feels like. My sisters and I occasionally play store among the greasy tools but the cleaning and organizing is becoming too much of a hassle and so we decide to move our store to the bunkhouse.

I enjoy lingering in our newly built barn. It has big open dutch doors that closed on the bottom and opened up on the top to the horse corral. It has two more entrances on the north and east side of the barn. I walk into the barn and sometimes I’ll pick up a shovel and scrape the horse manure off of the corrugated cement and throw the manure into the corral. Other times I run my hands along the leather saddles that are sitting up high on the saddle rack. I open the steel galvanized trash can that is in the corner of the barn and smell the oats. I check to see if I should top off the feed as I look for traces of mice. The barn smells of fresh hay that was scattered in the feeding stalls earlier this morning. The half strewn bales located in front of the stables are bales someone brought in from the side of the stack. The barn is built with light toned wood and the big doors allow the light to filter through.

In addition to dawdling around the outbuildings occasionally I would come home after school and the house would smell sour and there would be a sick baby calf on the back porch. The calf would be wrapped up in towels and would have a sick and tired look in his eyes. They were usually sick with scours and dehydration from being out in the wind, cold, and the wet snow. Scours was usually the culprit that ailed the baby calves in the late winter and early spring. When I woke up the next morning the calf was either hauled off to the bone yard or he was paired back up with his mama.   

The following afternoon my brother walks into the kitchen and says, “Hey you guys I need some help running the cows through and getting a head count. Could you all come out and help really quick?” I thought as long as I don’t have to doctor baby calves and get run over by the cow, herd bulls, or ride a bucking bronc I’ll pretty much do anything. We all look towards him and nod in agreeance.

We walk out towards the alleyway that is adjacent to the calving shed with a few punches to the arm from my brother and a few jokes cracked in between our stroll out the corrals. My sisters are instructed to round up the cows in the pasture and push them through the wide gate. They yip and holler at the livestock until the cattle start to run through the open gate shoving into the wide alley. I jump up on the fence next to my brother so I can see the heads of the cattle clearly. I am excited to be able to help my brother out because I enjoy being around him. In my mind this counts as a ‘no fear’ task because I can’t get run over, I can’t get head butted, and I can’t get thrown off the top of a horse. This is safe and I am enjoying this time together. My brother yells out and says, “Okay go ahead and start your count as soon as they run through the gate.” The cows push through the alley and we all do what he has instructed us to do. My little sister stands on a fence post across the alley way with my older sister. My younger sister starts yelling her numbers into the air loud and clear, “1-2-3-4.” I am excited as the cows are kicking up the dust and I start counting from my fence post that I am standing on as I watch the cows push through. I shout out, ”1-2-3-4….15.” My brother looks at us with fire in his eyes. “Good hell! Shut up and count in your heads. I can’t get an efficient count with you two calling out your numbers!” 

Do you remember the episode when Spike the bulldog in the cartoon ‘Tom and Jerry’ finds Tom in his dog house? The top of the dog house is notoriously painted in black paint with the letters “Killer” written across the top. When Spike realizes Tom is in his dog house he grabs him by the neck and shakes him furiously back and forth until stars and circles form outside of his brains. Spike is clearly sending a message to Tom. Tom is later found writing out his will. I feel like I have just been metaphorically grabbed around the neck and shaken until I understand how to complete this task. I feel like I need to run to safety and maybe write out a declaration that states, “I will never count out loud. I will only count in my head” ten times. 

Sometimes the exchange of interpersonal communication can be expressed through yelling, emotions, an accumulation of words and ideas. I personally like the calm instructional version of communicating. I just received my brother’s message loud and clear by the way he specifically articulated his words. My eyes fill with tears and the cows in the alleyway become one big blob of moving hair and shuffling hooves. I pick up my counting where I left off and ever so quietly I count in my head. We gather together by the side of the calving shed after all the cows had pushed through the alleyway to report what number of cows we each had counted. I am about fifteen head off count and my younger sister missed the count by three or four. I guess my older sister understood my brother’s ideas that he earlier communicated to her because she ended up with the same number of cattle as he did.  

I seem to be miscommunicating and not understanding others’ ideas while I try to help out. I am not sure if this is the life for me because sometimes it feels unsettling and backwards. Earlier this spring I was riding a horse at the front of the cattle drive while we were trailing cows to the summer range. I was ready to get off and go back to my dad in the pick-up to grab some lunch.

There was one problem:

The only way back to my dad was through a long and narrow procession of cattle with fences on both sides.

It is the tired cattle and me for a long time before I can reach the back where my dad drives behind in his truck. I decide to hop on the fence to work my way back through hundreds of cattle. It is the last day of the trail and the cowboys are pushing hard to move the cows. I quickly assess the situation with the cows moving north and I am going to be moving south. I jump on the fence and work my way to my dad. All of the sudden I hear from the back of the large herd a faint yell coming my way. “Get off of the %$#@$& fence! Your making it hard to push the #$%$*& cows!” I come to a sudden realization that I am the problem of the slow moving cattle. I am causing them to want to slow down and stand still. I don’t know what to do? I start to move my long legs faster over the wooden log fence – left leg over right, slide, slide slide-this is what I will do until I can get to safety (My dad). I finally reach my destination and the shrieking and wailing finally comes to a halt. The cowboys’ communication hits me hard. It not only penetrates my ears but it also sinks into my mind and my heart.  

Expressing ideas and communicating didn’t always come across sweet and dripping with honey. Conveying messages needed to be bold and clear because of certain situations. I am here to tell you that I have never since and will never count out loud while others are counting at the same time. The instructions weren’t always cut and dry but there were always a few words of information communicated along with a way to execute the plan. Except when I tried to get back to my Dad. No one had instructed me on how to get back to my dad on the cattle trail. I was simply told to hop off the horse and head back. Yikes! I learned my lesson when I received my instruction mid-stride. When we try to effectively communicate with others we learn to lead constructively and create bonds with other individuals. 

Here are three things you can try to be a better communicator:

1. Do not interrupt others.
2. Don’t be a rambler- Be clear and concise in the point you are trying to make.  
3. Be gracious and courteous of others’ thoughts and ideas. 

Resources: 

Origins of Idaho place names

https://www.google.com/search?q=spike+yells+at+tom&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS942US942&oq=spike+yells+at+tom+&aqs=chrome..69i57.7484j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:46d1bd0a,vid:St5Ad7qLXbU,st:0

https://matterapp.com/resources/interpersonal-communication#:~:text=Effective%20interpersonal%20communication%20skills%20enable,reassurance%20to%20those%20around%20you