Tracy Rehberg, Contributing Editor

Pickle Jar Ethics
Because the media has adopted photographs of cute pink pigs to serve as the icon for essentially any hard news report on the spread of human H1N1 influenza, I ought to write about swine flu and its like-it-or-not correlation to social opinion and animal welfare; but, I won’t. At least, not this time. You see, I’ve just returned from a sun-filled day at Wrightsville Beach. I’m full of sea air, suntan lotion and the promise of summer.

And it has occurred to me that this issue of CALF News will reach you around the Fourth of July as you make time to unwind a bit, too.

I hope your plans are as joyful as mine. Each year, my children and I travel from North Carolina to my family’s ranch in Halsey, Neb. (and you may remember last summer’s grand kitten adventure, in which case see below for an update on what is now the grandly spoiled, ten-pound housecat).* Our Fourth of July vacation has become a ritual and keeps growing to accommodate more friends, family and organized events. This year will be an Atkins’ Family reunion and a combined celebration of my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary and my dad’s 60 th birthday. At least two of my friends and their families from Raleigh will join us on their first rural-Midwest venture. I can hardly wait.

Our first stop has already been on the books for several months. My son will take his buddy, Saige, to Cabela’s in Omaha to purchase a Daisy BB gun like his to hunt jack rabbits that have grown thick on the Nebraska plains after the coyote population dwindled. This will be slightly more challenging than shooting fish in a barrel, and his mom wonders if he’ll have the stomach for hunting or prefer nailing targets to cedar trees and hay bales. I think, in the midst of the wild open space, he’ll probably surprise her.

The group will play horseshoes, tube – maybe tank – down the lazy Middle Loup River, fish in our neighbor’s pond, ride horses, marvel at the beauty and stillness of the Sandhills, and take in more fresh air and stars than they’ve ever known. We’ll tour the Halsey National Forest and summer grazing land, which beyond the replacement heifers, will be their first glimpse at our cattle. On July 3, the community and friends and family from states away will make merriment at the ranch. Then, on July 4, we’ll all head to town to partake in the hoopla.

Ah, the Fourth of July celebrations of rural hometown America. Mine, Halsey, Nebr. – population 59 (but only according to the sign). We’ll attend the youth rodeo, then watch children scramble for pennies in the straw, enter the turtle races (that I still want to win, but my children couldn’t care less about), and eat smoked roast beef in the town square as a precursor to the grand finale – a modest fireworks display. The roast beef dinner is funded by community donations collected in a three-gallon pickle jar.

Although the residents don’t know it, the jar itself is legendary. I learned this in college when my geography professor glanced at the class roster, noticed a student from Halsey and halted his lecture. He digressed to tell a story about small town ethics – and a pickle jar – that I’m sure he still tells today. Years ago, Dr. Foote was traveling along Highway 2 on the Fourth of July and, feeling adventurous, stopped to join the cookout. He watched the oversized donation jar fill with money throughout the afternoon, then watched the townspeople wander a few blocks away to drink and enjoy the fireworks. The pickle jar was left on the sidewalk after dark, brimming with cash and a few rather large bills until someone remembered to gather it much later. He had never imagined a spot in the world where that could happen. I’m proud to think I still know of a few, but also wonder how long it will continue.

World’s best roast beef and Bud Light aside, Halsey and its celebration just ain’t what it used to be. I’m sure you’ve observed the same slow spiral as our small towns deteriorate and threaten to dry up. Gone are the parades, the clatter of horse hooves on the pavement, the glitter of county beauty queens and our veterans handing out poppies leftover from Memorial Day. The numbers no longer support cow patty bingo or the constant squeal and pop of the children setting off firecrackers and bottle rockets.

But this year, my Independence Day homage has created quite a presence on Facebook where I’ve reunited with a lot of past hometown friends remembering the traditions we used to relish. I think many of them will make the trip home for a reunion of sorts this summer. A childhood girlfriend posted in jest that we should dig up the time capsule we all buried in the town square as kids during the Halsey Centennial Celebration in 1987. It’s set to be unearthed at a similar bicentennial celebration in 2037. I can only imagine how few resident school children will be there to discover the memorabilia we left for them – but I do know they’ll be a fortunate few indeed.

O Yes, last Fourth of July brought a new addition to our family – a barn cat named Jill – who claimed a spot on the airlines for our return home to Raleigh. As city pets do, she costs us a fortune in housecat frills and, when we took her to be spayed, came home neutered, so Jill is now Yoda. But we love him just the same. (And, I used to judge livestock. My dad must be so proud.)