November 21, 2007 Sidestepping cow pies, I lug a half-full bucket of grain out into the pasture. Heading toward the feeder, I get the feeling that there's a team's worth of linemen behind me. Both in their girth and heavy breathing, my bovine beauties resemble a trio of out of shape nose guards.
'They need to be bucket trained,' Tim says last month after they pushed through the fence and he had to chase them down. At the time, his only tool of persuasion was his truck.
So it was my job to 'teach.' What the bell was to Pavlov's dog, the blue bucket is to my cows and so far, it seems to have worked. Just the dust alone from me digging into the feed cart is enough to get their attention.
With much gusto, they dig in. It's only meant to be a treat so in a matter of minutes, it's gone.
Minus the head-butting, shoving and open-mouthed chewing, their little display reminds me of Thanksgiving around our family table.
There's anticipation for 'Grandma rolls' and real mashed potatoes followed by positioning for the best seats around the table. We're rather fast eaters, so conversation is somewhat limited. Then comes bargaining between kids and adults for dessert privileges. A mess ensues but my mother is as adept at clean up as cooking. We, of course, pitch in.
It's not the most formal of affairs but the energy and enthusiasm with which we consume the weekend—food, time spent with family, football—speaks to our thankfulness for being so richly blessed.