Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "cattle"
Happy birthday, mate!
Not that long ago, I read the fantastic memoir, Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl by Carol Bodensteiner.
Now I did not grow up on a farm and I've never set foot in Iowa (in fact, I'm an unapologetic child of the New York City suburbs). But boy, did Bodensteiner's accounts of her childhood bring back memories!
I first visited my Australian grandparents' "property" when I was just four years old. To the best of my knowledge, the trip took forever. Or at least it felt that way. But the cross country flight from New York to L.A. and the ensuing trans-Pacific flight from L.A. to Sydney, hour-long flight from Sydney to Tamworth and hour-long drive from Tamworth to Barraba, N.S.W., was definitely worth it.
At the end of that long, long journey, Mom and I finally arrived at "Wyndella," the 5,000 acre spread where my grandfather ran beef cattle and sheep. He also grew wheat and alfalfa there.
To a little girl so far from home, everything on the place -- from the cows in the paddocks to the catfish in the creek -- seemed unbelievably big and scary. But my grandparents welcomed their "Cranky Yankee" with open arms, and instantly became more than family. They became my heroes.
As I learned on subsequent trips, life on the land wasn't an easy one. Men like my grandpa and uncles faced an uphill battle in the drought-scorched "bush." Water and money were often scarce in the lean years... but somehow Grandpa managed to make a living and -- perhaps even more impressively -- Grandma raised five children.
Whether times were tough or good, my grandparents -- or the "Gs" as some family members affectionately called them -- always made sure I had a good time when I visited. So "Wyndella" quickly became my second home.
It was the place where I helped brand cattle and mend fences. It was the place where I stood in the back of the Suzuki with hair and adrenaline flying as Grandpa and my uncles hunted kangaroo at night. It was the place where I watched Grandpa behead a "chook" (chicken) and the place where I learned the importance of working dogs.
It was the place where I spent Christmas Day poolside when I was 12. It was the place where I played with my cousins and endured merciless teasing from my uncles. It was the place where Grandpa was the only one brave enough to try and teach me how to ride a dirt bike. It was a place where you went to bed and got up early without complaint.
It was a place I loved.
Sadly, all of that changed when time and age caught up with Grandpa. He and Grandma made the difficult decision to move off the land and buy a house in town. Extenuating circumstances made it impossible to keep the property in the family, so strangers bought "Wyndella."
While I've been back to Barraba several times, I haven't set foot on the land since I was 21. Aunts and uncles say I wouldn't want to. They say it's not the same. I hate them for denying me a chance to see for myself... but that's another story for another time.
One thing hasn't changed in all these years. Grandpa is still my hero. He turned 99 earlier this week, and (knock on wood) is still in great health. He attributes his longevity to clean living -- he gave up smoking when he was young and "keeps off the grog." Perhaps that really is his secret. Or perhaps all that hard work helped, too.
In any case, all I know is that he's the best. Happy birthday, mate! This "Cranky Yankee" still loves you!
And until next time, "That's life..."
Now I did not grow up on a farm and I've never set foot in Iowa (in fact, I'm an unapologetic child of the New York City suburbs). But boy, did Bodensteiner's accounts of her childhood bring back memories!
I first visited my Australian grandparents' "property" when I was just four years old. To the best of my knowledge, the trip took forever. Or at least it felt that way. But the cross country flight from New York to L.A. and the ensuing trans-Pacific flight from L.A. to Sydney, hour-long flight from Sydney to Tamworth and hour-long drive from Tamworth to Barraba, N.S.W., was definitely worth it.
At the end of that long, long journey, Mom and I finally arrived at "Wyndella," the 5,000 acre spread where my grandfather ran beef cattle and sheep. He also grew wheat and alfalfa there.
To a little girl so far from home, everything on the place -- from the cows in the paddocks to the catfish in the creek -- seemed unbelievably big and scary. But my grandparents welcomed their "Cranky Yankee" with open arms, and instantly became more than family. They became my heroes.
As I learned on subsequent trips, life on the land wasn't an easy one. Men like my grandpa and uncles faced an uphill battle in the drought-scorched "bush." Water and money were often scarce in the lean years... but somehow Grandpa managed to make a living and -- perhaps even more impressively -- Grandma raised five children.
Whether times were tough or good, my grandparents -- or the "Gs" as some family members affectionately called them -- always made sure I had a good time when I visited. So "Wyndella" quickly became my second home.
It was the place where I helped brand cattle and mend fences. It was the place where I stood in the back of the Suzuki with hair and adrenaline flying as Grandpa and my uncles hunted kangaroo at night. It was the place where I watched Grandpa behead a "chook" (chicken) and the place where I learned the importance of working dogs.
It was the place where I spent Christmas Day poolside when I was 12. It was the place where I played with my cousins and endured merciless teasing from my uncles. It was the place where Grandpa was the only one brave enough to try and teach me how to ride a dirt bike. It was a place where you went to bed and got up early without complaint.
It was a place I loved.
Sadly, all of that changed when time and age caught up with Grandpa. He and Grandma made the difficult decision to move off the land and buy a house in town. Extenuating circumstances made it impossible to keep the property in the family, so strangers bought "Wyndella."
While I've been back to Barraba several times, I haven't set foot on the land since I was 21. Aunts and uncles say I wouldn't want to. They say it's not the same. I hate them for denying me a chance to see for myself... but that's another story for another time.
One thing hasn't changed in all these years. Grandpa is still my hero. He turned 99 earlier this week, and (knock on wood) is still in great health. He attributes his longevity to clean living -- he gave up smoking when he was young and "keeps off the grog." Perhaps that really is his secret. Or perhaps all that hard work helped, too.
In any case, all I know is that he's the best. Happy birthday, mate! This "Cranky Yankee" still loves you!
And until next time, "That's life..."
That's life...
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