Other Animals:
Audubon, Bartram's crow, Carving a calf's head, Cook's bear, Darwin's fish, Darwin's goats, Doctor Lobster, Peacocks, Paddlefish, The cat who loved shoes, The rat, Trout fishing, Directory.

Florida:
Everglades, Fictional mounds, Florida in twenty twenty, Indian mounds, Matecumbe, Not the Florida you imagine, Pete Gustafson, Phillippi creek, River of grass, Warm Mineral Springs, Directory.

Other places other times:
Anvil, Archeomythology Ashfall (Nebraska), Ben, Carolina, Cook's Indians, Cotton, Corn, eb, Fence post, RC colas, Vermillion, Directory.

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Florida

Free (or almost free)

How many times have you discovered that making something disappear is a real pain. First you have to box it up, load it into the car (truck, van or "horrors" the station wagon), deliver same to the local Vincent de Paul or Goodwill &c., help unload, wait for a receipt and then return home. But wait the "gift giving" isn't over yet, at year's end you have to remember where you put the receipt so that you may (?) get a tax benefit. Makes you wonder if it is worth it. Why not just put it in the trash!

Well there has to be a better way and best of all to keep the Government out of it. Now I'm not against charities but sometimes the act of giving needs a more personal flavor, one in which you get a nice warm glow having benefitted someone else. And, the beneficiary need not be all that needy.

Any one that has had a garden, fruit trees or the like can appreciate "zucchini" stories. But they diminish the real value of sharing. It's a two way street, you are giving up a product from the soil and in exchange, you get grateful thanks and while the "food" is quickly consumed, the expression of thanks remains is forever. Consider.

In Florida, if you pay attention to the seasons and judiciously apply fertilizer, you can reap a bountiful crop. Take corn for example. Now I am talking about "sweet corn" not "yellow field corn". Our "veal calf operation" backed up on a group of houses built on one to five acre lots. And, the people who bought these "mini farms" typically hadn't the foggiest idea of what they could do with all that land, so they just planted grass and mowed it week after week. That's a waste in our judgement so we planted ever available inch to something that would be productive and that meant having a garden, a very large garden. Which translates to planting corn. Rationalization said that we could always feed the excess corn; stalk, leaves and all to the calves. But what we really lusted for was our own sweet corn.

Back in the seventies, Silver Queen had just been developed and was introduced in New Jersey and other truck crop areas so it was natural that it would be available in Florida as well. Silver Queen has a very substantial stalk, and roots well so that it has resistance to lodging and also will survive dry periods without loss of yield. And the large ears are well formed, some 14 or more rows of kernels in straight lines, from its silky tip to the husk end. And unlike the newly developed "super sweet" corn found in today's supermarkets, it has taste. Best comparison I can think of is between a low-calorie soft drink and the "real" thing.

So we planted Silver Queen in forty foot rows, six rows at a planting. And we planted once a week for six weeks. This was in early February so that we could expect our corn in about three months, beginning in May and lasting through June. After that, in Florida, unless you have irrigation, the sandy soil just can't provide the moisture retention needed to guarantee a crop.

May arrived and so did the Silver Queen. There is no greater pleasure to having a boiling pot of water on the stove, going to the garden and on the way back to the house shucking the corn, letting the husk fall where they may so that by the time you enter the back porch you have a dozen or so beautiful, ears of corn ready for the pot. Now a dozen ears of corn spread over five at the table may sound like a lot to most people but if you enjoy sweet corn you will appreciate that may not be enough. More times than not, in the middle of the meal, you arise from the table and return to the garden for another batch. Knowing that this will probably happen, the pot on the stove is kept at a low boil in anticipation of the second round.

That's fine for your growing family, but what about the neighbors. There is no better way to meet people than to offer them the bounty from your garden. Such was the case in Florida. The retired couple at our back fence were introduced to the joys of Silver Queen and in exchange, they offered most interesting stories garnered from their careers as Government Servants. One story I recall most vividly was the tale of how he had been sent to Rafford, the state penitentiary, at the end of the Governor's term. He had signed pardons in his pocket and was expected to write in the names of "political contributors" on the blank space provided in exchange for some financial contribution. " A get out of jail free" pass, certainly of interest to those already in jail.

Another story had to do with telling time. It seems one of our "chillins" was in school and they were in the process of learning to tell time the old analog way. George recalled how in the early days in Florida, not everyone was so friendly and in the case of two families the relationships were like the McCoys &c. Two of the senior members of the opposing families met in Lake City on the board walk. (The sidewalks and streets were paved with boards so that you wouldn't get mired in the mud. Since Florida had an abundance of timber, this was the best local solution to the rainy season problem). Since neither would step off the boards to let the other pass. They faced one another. One took his pocket watch out and showed the face to the other. He asked what time it was. Now it is unlikely that either could tell time. So while the one gazed at the watch, the other drew his pistol and pointed it at him. What to do? Down on his knees he went. Then, into the mud alongside the walk. Then on his back. The other demanded that he tell the time. (Being unable to read or write much less tell time, it appeared that his time had run out.) And with all cases where each has been backed into a position where it is difficult to withdraw, it appeared that blood was about to be shed. But fortunate for the two of them, along the walk came a "lady". Now, our man with the watch and gun would have to step off to make way or pass on down the walk, which he did, thus saving the telling of time for another day.

As you can see, Florida is somewhat different today than it was in the not too distant past. George insisted that anytime you go into the "country" and approach a house use caution. Stop at the front gate. Do not attempt to open the gate or enter. Instead, "Hallo" the house. If there is no response, better to go on down the road than be found as a dead trespasser.

There are snakes in Florida, big ones. If you see one cross the road in front of your truck, you make every effort to run over the creature, especially if it is a rattler. One of those days when I was traveling one of the back roads of crushed lime rock, I saw a rattlesnake that must have been eight feet long making his (or her) way across the road. So naturally, I ran over him. A snake of this size is as big around as your arm or bigger and when the truck went over him, it was like running over a piece of cordwood in the road. I looked back and he was still in the road, so I backed slowly over him and stopped to admire my handy work, but the snake was no where to be seen. Had he crawled off to the side of the road, or worse yet, found some way to crawl up under the truck, maybe around the springs or motor. I sure wasn't going to look to see, yet when I got home, I still wondered where he had gotten off to, and waited to the next morning to look under the truck. No snake. So I guess this is a successful end of this story.

Living on a county maintained road, which means they use a road grader to fill in the potholes and get rid of the washboard effect that develops after rain and traffic, you learn to pay attention to the road ahead. One afternoon, I spied a rattlesnake about three feet long crossing the road and she was accompanied by a number of small snakes. When she saw danger (meaning I suppose my presence), the small snakes disappeared into her mouth, and she crawled away. I still doubt that I actually saw this happen, cause in Florida the heat does strange things to one's imagination.

Having started a veal calf growing operation on the small acreage we rented, the first order of business was to develop a feeding program that would give the most bang for the buck. After weaning from the milk replacer, the calves readily accepted the sweet feed that was available. While popular with the horse trade, it contained just what the calves needed. But perhaps a bit of tweaking would make it more appetizing, so adding additional black-strap molasses was in order; Barbados molasses was cheap, in those days contained lots of sugar not removed in the cane processing and available in quantity. So a fifty five gallon drum of molasses was bought and daily tapped to add to the feed. All went well until we decided to take a vacation and put the calves out to pasture for a time. On return, feeding the calves was in order so out to the drum for withdrawl of a quantity to be added. One thing to remember about molasses is that it ferments and fermentation results in production of alcohol and a by-product, carbon dioxide. This isn't of much importance since this is a very low level of activity and most people are totally unaware of fermentation taking place. However, in Florida's summer, the temperature often is in the 90's and that encourages alcohol and gas production. Still, not much to think about, unless the molasses is in a sealed fifty five gallon steel drum. As I opened the bung to withdraw the molasses, pressure built up in the barrel was suddenly released and I got a good dressing of molasses, probably five gallons or so. Unfortunately, the kids were to witness the event and probably will never let me forget it. (After all, a chemist, especially a biochemist, should understand these things.)

Not all Florida was as bad as these stories indicate. The Gustafson family, came from Minnesota to Florida with a single cow. They started a dairy and today have one of the largest in the Southeast. Pete Gustafson was about seventy when I first met him. He had "retired" from dairy operations and had assumed the duties associated with disposing of the three thousand or so calves born to the dairy each year. His approach was to have an open auction each day when the calves were separated from their mothers and offered for sale. Some days there would be only a single calf and on others the barn would be full with upwards of one hundred. Buyers would come from as far away as Tennessee and the Carolinas to get these Holstein and Holstein cross as well as jersey, brown Swiss and other calves. It was well know that they were of the best quality and having spent an extra day or so with the mother in the birthing pasture, had consumed their fill of protective antibodies in the first milk (colostrum). Now Pete tried to be fair and see that buyers obtain the calves that they had come for, but sometimes the number was just not adequate for the demand. Other days, the selection would not be what the buyers wanted yet Pete had to make sure there were no calves left in the barn at the end of the day. So, he found ways of linking sale of a desirable calf with one or more that was less attractive. Usually he succeeded, otherwise the calf would have to be killed and go to the renderer who called on the dairy each day.

One particular day, I was buying calves and toward the end of the auction, Pete brought out a bright, jersey/Hereford cross heifer that had been stepped on by her mother. Her left shoulder was crushed. But somehow, the calf managed to get around on three legs, dangling the other. How she could get up is still hard to imagine, since cattle shift their weight to their front while kneeling, then push up with their hind legs until they have their weight over their hind legs. Then they with a swinging motion, raise their front legs and are standing erect. Doing this with a single front leg seems impossible. And, the pain would have been excruciating except with the natural pain killers, the endmorphins that are produced in the brain.

Who would buy this calf? The other buyers were leaving to pick up their calves. And soon, just Pete the calf and I were left. Now it was obvious that Pete had already gone the extra mile for this calf. Usually they were removed from the mother as soon as they were spotted in the pasture. Maybe, a cow and calf would escape detection and the calf might be three or four days old before they were picked up and separated. But this calf was different, I could see that she was probably a week to ten days old. Pete had simply not been able to separate them. He now had to face facts. Finally he said; "Five dollars". Most calves sold for forty five to one-hundred. This one actually had no value. But I thought, "why not". If she survived, perhaps I could sell her at a great discount, but still a profit, with the others I raised. And Pete really wanted her to go. (If I had said no, he would probably have given her to me, but from my point of view, that would not have been a proper business arrangement. Pete knew this as well.) So on the truck she went.

The kids named her old red, even though she was right out of the box. She thrived. Other calves came and went, but old red stayed and continued to grow. Just couldn't seem to sell her.

Then the news. Having been offered a job in Tennessee, the veal operation would have to be shut down. What to do with old red and the other "tail enders" that we had. Since we found a rental house with a few acres, we decided to move them to Tennessee. From there they went to a farm we bought and as they matured, it became obvious that we were in the cattle business.

Soon there was a new bull on the property, and some nine months later calves began to arrive. Old red didn't disappoint us. Her first offspring was a heifer, marked just as she was, brindled white face, and dark red body.

Next year, another heifer. And the next yet another. The string was broken after the fifth year when a red bull calf was produced. What a handsome feller he was. And playful. We worried that the kids would get hurt as they joined red and her offspring. They liked to push against his head and he would push back. Never did they think that someday he would be a towering animal weighing fifteen hundred pounds or so. He became the "bull". Now I know some will question the wisdom of keeping a bull of unknown linage. But, he didn't disappoint us. His offspring were always equal to those of our neighbors.

And then, change again. It was time to leave the farm. Sale of these animals was necessary and when we found a buyer who wanted the whole bunch; cows, calves, yearling steers and heifers plus the bull, it seemed to be the best of all worlds. And when it came to buying old red, not a question of her value. She was the equal of the rest and a proven producer. Thanks, Pete and Thanks, Florida for some of the best years of our lives!

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