Dairy expo memories

Attending the Central Plains Dairy Expo — one of the few events where it isn’t an insult to be called “cheese breath” — is always entertaining and educational.

One year, the welcome banquet entertainment came in the form of Baxter Black, the celebrated comedian and cowboy poet.

Dr. Black, a large animal veterinarian, spent most of an hour regaling his audience with his homespun humor, most of which was based on his veterinarian-related experiences. His poem about reinstalling a cow’s prolapsed uterus could be described as both “hilarious” and “gross.”

Following his performance, I joined the crowd that gathered to greet Dr. Black. I asked if he would be available later to chat a bit, and he graciously said yes.

We found a pair of comfortable chairs, and the good doctor and I sat and yakked for a good while. Baxter struck me as genuinely warm and kind. I noticed that, whenever he shook someone’s hand, he placed his free hand gently upon the other person’s shoulder.

It wasn’t long before our dialogue turned to shop talk. We shared some war stories as one columnist to another.

“I had worked as a veterinarian for 13 years when I was offered a job by an animal health company,” Baxter said when asked how he got started in the writing biz. “They wanted me to hold informational meetings, complete with slide shows, about animal health issues and the products to treat them.

“Presenting slide shows is about as much fun as pushing an anvil around. I said I would do it, but without the slide show. Folks began to notice that my presentations were a lot more fun than others’. People started to ask for me. The column and my poetry grew from that.”

Ever have a reader take issue with one of your columns?

“Of course. As an old writer once said, the writing ain’t real writing if you don’t make ‘em squeal once in a while. I’ve had people say to me, ‘I bet I could write a column.’ OK. But could you write 52?”

Having penned 52 columns a year for over two decades, I knew exactly what he meant. As our visit drew to a pleasant close, I was glad that I managed to avoid saying, “You know, doc, our old dog has this weird lump on his side...”

The next day, as I wandered the dairy expo’s trade show, I met a guy named Keith who hailed from the Isle of Man. And no, I didn’t ask him if it’s located next to the Corridor of Women, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “You’re the first man I’ve met from Man.”

Keith is a farmer, so I asked about agriculture on the Isle of Man.

“The island is only 32 miles by 13 miles,” he said, “and just a small portion of it is tillable. Many of our fields are these horrible little three-acre tracts that are surrounded by stone fences. You could make half a round with an American combine and harvest an entire field.”

Keith told me the number of acres farmed on the Isle of Man, but I promptly forgot the sum. I do recall there weren’t all that many and that I knew several operators who could easily farm the entire island.

I neglected to ask Keith to clear up this conundrum: If no man is an island, how can an island be a man?

Asked if there was anything I should know about the island, Keith instantly replied, “The TT Races.”

It wasn’t what I thought. Keith informed me that the Tourist Trophy Races are motorcycle competitions that have been held on the Isle of Man every year since 1907. Average course speeds exceed 120 mph, and there are even races involving motorcycles with sidecars. And here I thought that sidecars were stodgy.

I always find ample opportunities to chat with dairy farmers during the expo. It feels like old home days for this former dairy farmer. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but I think that dairy farmers are some of the nicest folks on the planet.

Even though milk prices were lower than a salamander’s belly, one year, some kind soul anonymously left a package for me. An attached note read: To Jerry’s relative serving our country. Thanks.

The parcel contained several packets of beef jerky. The giver was referring to our nephew, Adam, who was in Baghdad at that time. I forwarded the parcel to Adam; he later expressed his deep gratitude.

It’s the small, heartfelt gestures — a gentle hand on the shoulder, chatting with old friends, an anonymous gift — that make this region such a splendid place to live.

Plus, there’s all that free cheese at the expo.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.