Tracy Rehberg, Contributing Editor

I smiled from ear to ear when I saw the photograph the CALF News team paired with my last column, “Better Keep Working,” about work ethic and the privilege of a childhood spent around cattle. The photograph was of CALF News editor, Larisa Willrett’s daughter, Olivia, posing with her haltered stocker-feeder calf. Olivia was wearing summery shorts with her cowboy boots, and the image brought a flood of happy and hard-knock 4-H memories.

I showed cattle in 4-H from age eight to 17. I’d rise each summer morning to bring my calves to the corrals, sort them from their mothers, and nestle them into the cool barn to be haltered, fed and to lounge until it was time for their show practice. We’d walk in circles. Some were feisty, others were stubborn. Gradually they learned to move with an air of patience and attentiveness. By the time the county fair rolled around, they’d gained a plush coat and the skill to hold-up and stand just so under the direction of my show stick. I was hooked.

My first year in 4-H, I showed two calves. By my third year, I’d packed the barn stalls to capacity with six stocker feeders – more than I could show in any category. When I was old enough, my favorites would resume their show careers as yearlings and trek to the state fair. It was hard work in the heat of summer, and I amassed more than my share of bumps, bruises, rope burns and pinched fingers from that darned portable grooming chute. The companionship of those animals and intense gratification on show day made it all worthwhile.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my 4-H experience came packed with a lot of valuable teachings. Here are a few of my favorites:

You can’t have a pet that’s destined for the food chain.
I learned this the hard way. At age nine I had a stocker feeder named Ralph. He had a proud build and the temperament of an overweight housecat. After the county fair I was feeling awfully sad that our gig was up so my dad offered to take us to a calf show and sale in Bassett, Neb. I was thrilled. I practiced extra hard. When the big day arrived, we loaded Ralph in the trailer and made the two-hour-plus drive. The show was everything I had hoped for, but when it came time for the auction, my tears started to flow. I couldn’t possibly sell Ralph, so my dad let me bring him home. I’m sure Ralph was elated to join the newly weaned calves … right up until he lingered around the bunks too long – cleaning up feed – bloated and … well, you know the rest.

With responsibility comes freedom.
Beyond the fact that my dedication to show cattle spared me from countless hours in the hayfield, I’ll never forget the day I realized that responsibility could earn me a little respect. I was alone in the barn brushing and petting my calves while they ate. As I went to leave, one caught me by surprise with a kick to the pelvis that would leave me badly bruised. With eyes and voice both full of tears, I let forth the longest string of curse words I’ve ever assembled. I was 10 years old and I don’t think I’d used profanity before. My blue streak was interrupted by the unmistakable belly laugh of my father from outside the barn door. He stopped laughing long enough to say, “ Tracy, I didn’t know you knew any of those words,” then he left, laughing his way across the yard. My dad’s a strict guy so I remember thinking, “What just happened here?”

In retrospect, 4-H calves were an excellent way to commemorate pop culture.
Who needs a time capsule? Flipping through my albums of show cattle is like watching a VH-1 Flashback. In 1981, I was nine and my calves were named after “The Flintstones.” I showed Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty. By 1989, I was leading the hoofed cast of “The Simpsons” with Homer, Marge, Bart and Lisa. As a teenager, I had calves named Goose and Maverick – my homage to Tom Cruise and the movie Top Gun . I completed my show career with two fat steers named Harley and Davidson . It was time for my parents to worry.

Beauty isn’t everything.
I was always excited to see one of my prized breeding heifers join the ranks of my dad’s other (less glamorous) replacement heifers. Then, with few exceptions, she would end up “open” or not produce enough milk, which brings me back to my first lesson learned: you really can’t have a pet that’s destined for the food chain.

Rescuing my show cattle from the dinner plate was unproductive and also an exception to the norm. I understood their purpose and believed in it as much then as I do now. I have wonderful memories of 4-H and I am glad for the experience to say goodbye to a few gentle steers as they lay in the state fair straw.