by Bobbi Phelps
Chapter Six
Industrial Farming
Eager to learn about Sky Ranch, I discovered numerous facts about farming, not your average garden-variety farming, but huge, industrial farming—the business they perfected at the ranch. First, I noticed the rhythm of the seasons and realized when planting actually began.
It started in late fall when workers churned the ground after harvest. I watched the stubble in front of their large vehicles change to chocolate-brown chunks of earth flying out behind. Next, the workmen in their machines came back through the field and planted winter wheat. During winter months, deep snows encased the Rocky Mountains, irrigating the crop and keeping it from freezing. Finally, in spring the lingering snow started to evaporate. Tiny green sprouts of winter wheat began to penetrate the soil. That’s when other crop plantings began in earnest.
Sandy soil, hot days, and cool nights made for perfect growing seasons in South Central Idaho, known specifically around Twin Falls as Magic Valley. During early spring, I zipped up my jacket and stepped outside, into the cold March air. I watched fields crawl with machines, moving up and down, keeping rows as straight as possible. Farmers judged each other by how even their rows were. The straighter the row, the more accurate the planting and harvesting. Straight rows meant more money. Workers left their machines in fields, ready to begin planting the following morning. Surprisingly, no one ever stole any farm equipment as keys were kept in the vehicles overnight. What was really on a farmer’s mind was water, not loss of machinery. Magic Valley received only ten inches of rain a year and meteorologists considered it a semi-arid desert.
“Forget about oil,” Mike once told me. “Water will be the world’s most important commodity.” And he was right. Today, countries, states, towns, and individuals fight over water rights. The more fresh water, the wealthier the region.
* * *
When Sky Ranch contracted a crop duster some time later in the season, I would stand on our front porch and watch a small yellow plane take off and land just a hundred feet before me, using the dirt road bordering our house as an air strip. The plane circled our pastures, being careful to rise above telephone and electric wires, and then dropped low to spray a fine mist of fertilizer or herbicide. It was like seeing a professional air show, and yet, there it was—free entertainment, right at my doorstep.
Whenever a field had been sowed too many times with one specific crop, Don and Mike would substitute it with alfalfa. Known as a “rotating” crop, alfalfa hay contained a rich assortment of protein and minerals that impregnated the ground, making it better for a subsequent crop. Sky Ranch generally had at least three cuttings of alfalfa. With many dairy farms moving into Magic Valley, they had consistent buyers. Once the professional hay mowers arrived at the ranch, the alfalfa would be cut and then raked into long rows. Then the hay would “stand” or dry in the windrows covering the fields.
Often, I’d see the two brothers outside their offices, frequently with Terry and an agriculture or fertilizer consultant. They stood in a casual circle with their hands in their front pockets, looking down and scratching the dirt in front of them with their boot tips, a farmer’s way of thinking and discussing. This was a special ritual I’d see time and again . . . nothing like a corporate conference in a city office, but just as productive.
After lunch one day, Mike looked out our dining room window, checking the nearest field. He stood with his hands behind his back, his baseball cap pushed back on his head. I knew he wished for clear weather, no rain or wind, as we just had a cutting of alfalfa.
“Wow! Look at that, Bobbi,” he said as he pointed to a faraway, dark object.
I walked over to Mike and stood beside him, staring out the window. There in the distance was a brown elk traversing the hay field behind our house.
“Must be a young male, looking for a mate,” he said. “Obviously, it’s lost.”
Mike turned and moved to the kitchen. He reached for the Motorola and alerted Terry.
“Hey, we have an elk, west of the office,” he said. “Why don’t you herd him toward the foothills so he doesn’t get into trouble? Clear.”
“Okay. Will do. Clear,” Terry responded.
That wasn’t the first time we had wild animals crossing our farmland. Coyotes frequently trotted over the fields, and one time we had a cougar, also known as a mountain lion, cross behind our house. The tawny beast looked to be about two hundred pounds. We saw him retreat from the ranch, getting smaller and smaller until he simply disappeared into the foothills.
Chapter Seven
The Hound Pound
At the Times News, I relished in the energy of the work place, the frantic pace to meet deadlines. My job was to obtain display advertisements from local businesses, create ads, and deliver them to the paper’s design or typesetting department. Carol, my assistant, proofed the rough ads with the appropriate customers and brought them back to our office for me to either change or hand into the final production team.
She lived by herself and often talked about owning a small dog as a companion. It had to be able to ride in her car when she ran newspaper errands or to stay at home for hours on end. And it couldn’t shed.
“Why don’t you go to the pound?” I asked. “The building’s right down the street.”
“Will you come with me? We can go after work,” she said.
“Sure. I’ve never been to one before.”
Dressed in office attire, we drove together to the gray, cinder block building. The facility was dirty and dingy with thick weeds circling the place. Entering, we noticed the strong odor of animal waste. It completely filled our nostrils, and we practically gagged in response. Carol told the manager, a dark-haired man in his mid-fifties, what type of dog she wanted. He waved his hand, indicating he wanted us to follow him into the adjoining room. Our ears were immediately assaulted by profuse barking and uncontrollable howling.
As we walked the cement center aisle, we looked at both sides of the chain-link, fenced kennels. The dogs wagged their tails against the wire confines, barking to be liberated from their cramped prisons. Carol found a small mutt who jumped up and seemed to smile at her. She knelt in front of the cage, placing her fingers to the metal enclosure. The black and white dog looked like a terrier and poodle mix. When the manager opened the kennel door, the young dog leaped into Carol’s arms and began licking her face. It was love at first sight. After cuddling the squirming pooch for a few minutes, she replaced him in the kennel and shut the door. As we walked away, we heard a howl and saw it jumping at the enclosure as if to say, “Don’t leave me!”
Standing in front of the office counter, Carol filled out the appropriate paperwork and asked, “How much do I owe?”
“Fifty dollars,” the manager responded, wearing a dirty, white shirt splashed with grease. “And it has to be cash. No checks or credit cards.”
Carol and I stared at each other in complete surprise. This seemed to be a huge amount of money for a pound dog, over a hundred and fifty dollars in today’s currency. And to demand cash only? We examined our purses but together we could not come up with fifty dollars.
“I’ll bring cash tomorrow,” Carol stated. “I can’t get the money now. The banks are closed. It’s after five.”
We left the facility, feeling deflated. Carol had planned on bringing home a dog that day. She had already bought a collar and leash and had a month’s worth of food.
During work the following morning, she chatted and laughed about her impending life: walking, feeding, and watching television with her four-legged companion. At lunchtime, Carol withdrew fifty dollars from her bank and placed the money in an envelope, marked, “For Toby,” the name she had chosen for her rescued puppy. She was so excited she couldn’t keep her eyes off her wristwatch. Once the workday ended, she stood and shouted, “Let’s go!” She was in her car, leading the way. I trailed behind in mine. We braced ourselves for the smell and noise, but not for the manager’s announcement.
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sp; “You should’ve had the money yesterday,” he said as small bubbles of spittle clung to his lips, his words raining down on us like a bad storm. “We can only keep animals forty-eight hours. Then I have to gas them.”
“What?” Carol yelled. “I told you I’d be back. I have the money right here.”
“People say that all the time and they never come back,” he countered.
“Fine. But you could have taken a chance. One more day wouldn’t have made a difference,” she said as tears filled her eyes. “I can’t believe you killed him.”
I was shocked by the manager’s complacent attitude. He had a routine of killing animals on a forty-eight-hour schedule and wasn’t going to bend the rules. I was furious! Disheartened but determined to buy a dog, Carol walked into the back room. Although saddened by the loss of “Toby,” she picked out another small dog, tan and brown with curly hair and a yipping bark. A new Toby had entered her life.
Tom Courtney, the Twin Falls city manager whose wife was a card-playing friend since first arriving in Idaho, received a telephone call from me the next morning. Still angry over yesterday’s situation at the dog pound, I told Tom about the incident. I asked what the city could do to correct the situation.
“The city has no money. We can’t hire any more employees,” Tom responded. “If you want to do something at the shelter as a volunteer, go right ahead.”
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me what I need to do to be official.”
“Come to my office. You’ll have to sign some forms. Just keep me in the loop. I want to know your plans.”
I arrived at City Hall during my lunch hour and we discussed several options. My parents were both active volunteers in Connecticut and I thought this would be a good way for me to not only rectify a wrong, but also to give back to the community. This would be my first time volunteering as an adult.
After visiting with the editor of the Times News about the various negative issues at the City Pound, I was encouraged to write an article about a volunteer program that could alleviate the situation. It appeared in the Sunday paper and thirty people signed up to support the cause. We met at the pound on Saturday, all in work clothes and ready to scrub the interior. We also picked a new name. Instead of the Twin Falls Pound, we changed it to the “Hound Pound.”
The shelter manager was exceptionally pleased with our cleaning efforts.
“I can’t keep up,” he said as a way to offset the poor condition of the building. “I have to capture loose animals. And I have to gas all the animals exceeding forty-eight hours. Then I have to take the bodies to the rendering plant. I have no time to clean the place.”
Hearing his woes, I telephoned Dr. Marty Becker, a personal friend and our family veterinarian. He currently works on the Dr. Oz Show as America’s Veterinarian and is a national newspaper columnist, but in the 1980s, he was a small-animal vet in Twin Falls. He met me at the pound after work and we decided on a once-a-week schedule to euthanize animals, not every forty-eight hours.
“Gassing is cruel and inhumane,” he said. “I’ll get some other vets to perform intravenous injections.”
“I know some, too. I’ll ask them to help,” I added.
Once Marty came on board, every veterinarian in Twin Falls joined the mission. We asked them to donate their time once every six weeks. It was an easy fix to an awful problem. In the meantime, the volunteers at the Hound Pound encouraged new pet owners to have their animals spayed or neutered and gave a handout with the names and telephone numbers of local vet offices. For their volunteering efforts, the veterinarians gained many new customers. It was a win-win situation, and we were all proud of our contributions. The Times News covered the changes at the Hound Pound with a full-page article. A few days later, the local Boy Scouts called and asked if they could help.
“We’ll buy the paint and ten boys will be there Saturday morning,” the scout master told me. “They’ll each receive a merit badge.”
The scouts were at the building early on Saturday with brushes and paint. They white-washed and painted the whole building, inside and out. It looked amazing, fresh-looking and shiny. As they gathered their supplies, a few of them started to pull weeds. Before long the whole group of scouts circled the building and removed every weed.
“Thank you so much,” I exclaimed to the boys and their scout master. “You not only did a super job, but you went overboard. The building and grounds look fabulous. You definitely deserve your merit badges.”
Later in the week, I asked the Times News graphic artist to paint the name, Hound Pound on the side of the building. That evening he painted the pound’s name and, as a surprise, brushed six-foot-high dogs standing upright, marching out the front door as if in a parade.
Volunteering after work one day a week, I soon discovered most farmers and ranchers do not allow cats and dogs into their homes. Their animals are not considered pets but working animals. Cats catch rodents and dogs herd stock or retrieve hunted birds. After much begging, Mike allowed our dogs into the house, but Buddy, my black cat, had to stay outside. We had a pet door allowing him to come into the garage for shelter and food. Sometimes when Mike left for ranch duties, I’d sneak Buddy inside. We’d cuddle on our loveseat while I’d read a book, with me stroking his back and rubbing behind his ears. As I read, I listened for the sound of the garage door. The noise signaled that Mike would soon enter the house and I’d have to snatch Buddy from the couch and put him outside. I’d laugh as I looked out the window beside the front door as he shook his head as if wondering what had just happened.
Living in a male-dominated household was counter to the way I grew up. My parents were basically equal, with differing political opinions but compromising on day-to-day activities. At this time in Idaho and being in a farming household, I adjusted to most of Mike’s wishes, but sometimes, I simply couldn’t help myself. I was too independent. Pets had always been a part of my life. Consequently, I allowed Buddy inside whenever I knew I had a few hours to myself.
While working at the Times News, my boss assigned the Twin Falls Rendering Plant as one of my advertising accounts. It accepted dead dairy and farm animals as well as cats and dogs from the Hound Pound. The rendering firm processed these carcasses by separating the body from the bones and fat, and the fat into lard and grease. The meat would be ground into tiny pieces and sold as food for nearby mink, fish, and poultry farms. When I asked Mike about dead cows I’d see periodically along Highway 30, he told me farmers would haul them to a roadside ditch and notify the rendering plant. The company had its workers collect the dead animals and transport them back to Twin Falls for processing.
“Another fact about farming most city folks don’t know,” I said.
“Yup. The birth and death of animals are all part of a farmer’s life,” Mike said. And so it was. I remembered not to get attached to any animal that might someday become food. And to never name such an animal. How horrible would it be to say you were having Johnny or Betsy for dinner?
Chapter Eight
Florida Parents at Sky Ranch
“Any chance you two can fly back to Idaho for harvest?” I asked my parents over the phone.
“When’s that?” Mom inquired.
“Any time from the middle of August until the end of October,” I said. “Why not come in September?”
“I’m looking at our calendar right now,” Mom said from their new Florida home. “How about the end of September?”
“Great. I’ll let Mike know.”
Having my parents join me during my first year at Sky Ranch was exciting. I’d be able to brag about all I’d learned and they’d be able to witness an industrial harvest. They wouldn’t believe the size of the potatoes, the quantity produced, and the processing procedure. I couldn’t wait to tell Mike.
By the time my parents arrived at the Twin Falls airport, Mike and I were waiting. We rescued their luggage from the tarmac and walked back through the terminal. Mom and Dad followed us from the building and mentio
ned their turbulent flight over the mountains. When they arrived at Mike’s truck, my mother struggled to climb in. This was probably her first time in a pickup as it had been for me three years earlier.
Once settled in our home, I showed Mom how to position Mike’s cowboy hat.
“You put it upside down. Then the brim doesn’t bend,” I said as I took Mike’s hat and placed it on a shelf in our hall closet. She was impressed by my “cowboy” knowledge, so different from anything she had ever experienced.
Soon Mom took over our laundry chores, and Dad followed Mike while he completed his ranch duties. My father had spent his teenage summers on a small farm in Michigan and thoroughly enjoyed learning the specific intricacies of Sky Ranch’s corporate operation. While Mom picked yellow and purple wildflowers along our roadside a few days later, I drove my father across the ranch to join Mike on a combine. When we arrived at the correct place, I saw Mike’s combine traveling toward the end of the grain field with dust churning up behind the large, red machine. It would be at least an hour before he’d return to us, waiting on the side of the field.
“We’ll catch him, Dad,” I said as I drove my Subaru across the already cut grain, brittle with stalks. In spite of my lack of farming knowledge, I knew not to drive through the section that had yet to be cut. That was obvious. We bounced over center pivot wheel ruts, and my father hung onto the car handle above his side of the door.
“I don’t think you should be doing this,” Dad protested.
“Oh, it’s okay. Mike will be glad to see us.”
