Okay…so my dad the farmer decided that the twins and I were to be involved in 4-H when we were in grade school. It wasn’t our choice so the enthusiasm was not there to begin with. I forget what my brother’s first project was but my sister and I were signed up for Home Ec sort of things. Our first project to be entered into the fair held in town was biscuits. Biscuits made from scratch. I remember we were told to practice making biscuits for our family and anyone else who would volunteer to eat them so that we could perfect the product. We didn’t. Well, maybe just once in a while we made them for the family but since Mama’s biscuits were awesome and everyone, including ourselves, preferred them over our lame ones, practice was minimal, and we were so okay with that.
The morning we were to take our entries up to be put on display and judged, we got up early, threw flour all over the table like we were pros and proceeded to prepare our biscuits. Dad drove us to town and there we met our 4-H leader who showed us where to place our entries. All sorts of goodies filled the exhibit tables and some looked mighty delicious. We returned two days after the judging to collect the biscuits and the ribbons we scored. My sister received a red ribbon for her biscuits and I was awarded what I deem today as a participation ribbon–a white ribbon. The white ribbon meant my biscuits met only a few standards and expectations of the project. In other words, my biscuits sucked! What the heck! I guess I met the standard of using flour. My sister was always the better cook, even in adulthood, and she stayed loyal to her twin and joined him in harassing me about my “deadly” biscuits. My brother suggested that we take my biscuits up to the canal to see if we could knock some fish out with them. So we did. We did kill any fish, or knock them out, because they sank too quickly and broke up. That day my career as a possible biscuit mogul vanished.
The next 4-H project our dad got us involved in was livestock. Lambs. We definitely did not want to do this and we moaned and whined to Mama about it but to no avail. We were to raise lambs. One morning loud hammering and talking woke us up. Men were outside helping Dad build pens for the lambs that would soon be in our care. The lambs came the day after the pens had been finished. I think the lambs were around six months old, maybe five, and they were promptly placed in the pens. Dad told us to look them over and to select one for our project. While we listened to a lecture on responsibilities and a lengthy explanation of our duties, we stared at each other and looked to heaven for deliverance. Good times were about to begin. We were to daily clean the pens, making sure they were clean and dry, clean the water pan and feeder, always provide fresh water (which we had to haul using a bucket) and feed, tame the lamb and train it to stand still and in a certain way, and on and on. Never mind we still had to attend school. We also had to learn how to card the wool and block it since that is what we would have to do for the county fair in Yuma. In order to show the lamb and to get the highest possible price for it, the body and form of the lamb had to be near perfect. Anyway, I chose lamb in pen#1, which turned out perfect for me since it was rather docile. My sister took lamb #2. It was an ornery animal and bigger than mine. She didn’t have an easy go with her lamb and was often head-butted to the ground by it. It was kind of hilarious to watch. My brother’s lamb turned out to be an escape artist and pretty darn sneaky. Or smart. It learned how to unlatch the gate to its pen, and to squeeze between openings in the boards, until Dad changed the latch and wrapped the entire enclosure with pen fencing.
Days went by and we carried on with the 4-H lambs, not really liking it but what could we do? The lambs fattened up. My brother’s lamb became the model prisoner but my sister’s lamb, though somewhat tamed, still retained its ornery personality. And it was thinner than ours. About a week before the county fair in Yuma, we three dragged ourselves outside to check on our projects and to take care of our chores. The first thing we noticed was that my sister’s lamb was all puffed out, looking like a swollen marshmallow. My brother went and got Dad. He checked it out and moments later noticed a snake track moving away from the pens. We figured her lamb had been bitten by a rattler. Not positive about that but from that moment on we called her lamb, Rattlesnake. Rattlesnake stayed puffed up that week and entered the county fair that way. But Rattlesnake was a changed creature. She was calm and steady and let the judges walk around her, touching and prodding her without trying to ram the heck out of them. My brother and I watched in shock. Rattlesnake won a purple ribbon that year. My brother won a blue for an excellent exhibition, and I won a red ribbon–improvements could be made. Yeah, whatever.
What did I learn from 4-H? I learned that I wasn’t cut out to be a shepherdess and to this day I refuse to eat lamb or mutton.
Good times!
