We live in a galaxy of superstars. Change
your sex, write a tell-all-book, be 16 years old and lecture old fogies
about how the world will end in 12 years because of farting cows, or
“go viral” with your dog playing boogie woogie on the piano and you’ll
gain instant worldwide recognition.
Every
industry has its own rock stars, people who are universally admired and
worshipped either for their accomplishments, or who are simply famous
because they are famous. Colin Kaepernick made $20 million and a name
for himself simply by taking a knee.
We
are no different. If you go to a cattlemen’s convention you can tell
who the rock stars are by how long their name tag is. It seems every
group is using these three inch by five inch colorful cards that are
strung together indicating all the achievements of the person dragging
around the plastic biography. A card is added for every committee the
person is on, every office they’ve ever held, the awards they’ve been
given and the speeches they’ll deliver. You know you are really in the
presence of a rock star if they kick the bottom of their name tag when
they walk.
University
professors, breed association officials, purebred breeders,
veterinarians who work for huge drug companies, champion auctioneers,
economists, farm advisors and sustainability salesmen are all examples
of rock stars in our business. Cowboy poets like Baxter and Waddie are
idolized while many other ranchers think Allan Savory is a messiah or
celestial being.
The rock stars in my
universe are a little less famous. Take the man who hauled my cattle for
20 years. Ed wore a small oval name tag like a janitor or a mechanic
who worked for the Ford dealership might wear. He spent much of his
adulthood driving a cattle truck to all the local dairies that used to
dominate the landscape in my neighborhood. When the dairies all
disappeared Ed made the transition to hauling beef cattle. It was an
easy switch because Ed was the only driver who could get his truck and
trailer even remotely close to the loading chutes that were made to load
out bobtail trucks. As the son of a trucker and heavy equipment
operator I marveled at the tricks Ed used to get close to 100 year old
loading chutes that would turn to dust if you hit them very hard. Like
the time he drove over a round, four inch thick wooden fence post in
line with his trailer’s wheels so the trailer sort of fell off the post
four inches closer to the loading chute.
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