Moving livestock from point A to point B requires persons on horseback and a few thousand acres of open range (or a pickup and trailer). The latter has been our only option for years as the local law enforcement gets pretty excited when they see cattle being herded down the highway.

To this day I just can’t use the mirrors to back the most wonderful animal limousine, though I’ve given it a dang good try a few times. Like the day I was backing an eight-foot-wide trailer into a ten-footwide barn. As I watched the trailer in the side mirrors, it was slow and steady going; I amazed even myself as first the trailer and then the pickup backed in straight as an arrow. Then, as I was looking in the rear view mirror with a foot or so to go, taking note of my bad hair day and straightening my collar, crash! We must remember to leave room for the outside mirrors. Good thing it was close to dark as Uncle Curt borrowed our pickup the next day and all blame was placed on his side of the fence.

I’ve always said, give a horse forty acres of pasture with one small piece of old machinery in the far corner and the horse will find it and cut himself. Give Emily a forty-acre farm with one water hydrant out in the open and she will back a trailer over it. Old Faithful felt great on that hot and humid August day (until the well ran dry).

One of my very first hauling experiences was taking a load of critters to an auction market way out of my comfort zone. This was Ed’s job, but he had made the feeble excuse that combining grain that day was essential as rain was expected. It did rain, but only on my little parade at the end of the day.

Getting to the far-away auction was the easy part; finding the right chute and backing the trailer to it was a nightmare, to say the least.

There must have been a hundred or so livestock trailers in various stages of loading and unloading, and drivers leaning alongside their pickups chatting and spitting snoose, all happy and having a great day. When I saw the line I was to be in and where I had to back the trailer, I just about turned around and high-tailed it home. A building on one side with a fence on the other and a narrow sixty-foot distance to the chute—Calgon, take me away!

I looked around for female counterparts; there had to be at least one other gal waiting to back into the chute to screw it up before I did. Nope, all guys, and all were watching Emily as it was my turn to unload. This was by far one of the worst moments in my entire life!

Thank goodness there was a pair of gloves on the seat as my hands were sweating so bad they were slipping off the steering wheel. As my mirror viewing was a little problem, I casually put my right arm up along the top of the seat, looking back over my shoulder and pretending I knew perfectly well what I was doing.

Remember Thumper’s foot in the movie “Bambi”? That’s what my right foot was doing on the gas pedal and I couldn’t stop it! Driving a clutch, there was no option of using the (still slightly calm) left foot, and all I could think was that this out-of-control extremity would thump one last time and stay down on the gas. We sure as heck wouldn’t have to worry about the loading chute then, as it would be part of my trailer.

“Our Father who art in Heaven” is the last thing I remember; the rest of the unloading process has been blanked out of my mind “forever and ever.” All I know is that when I came home with an empty trailer,

Ed asked how the trip went, and for some strange reason my right leg started twitching…