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The Buford Accord
It was an historical agreement for our family. After many years of refusing to show a market animal at the fair, on the grounds that I would get too emotionally attached, Dad and I finally reached a compromise--we called it the "Buford Accord." While I could deal with sorting a pen of nameless feeder steers and loading them on a truck for the auction barn, there seemed to be something unjust about taking the same feeder steer, working with it all summer long, and then sending it to the packer at the end of the county fair. The Buford Accord, however, was a deal between Dad and myself. I would enroll in the market beef project, take care of the steer, show it and take it through the sale ring at the county fair. If afterward I didn't want to try the project again, I wouldn't have to. And, to seal the deal, Dad promised he would take responsibility for the steer directly out of the sale ring. I wouldn't have to put it on the truck and risk crying in public. It seemed to be a win-win situation and a bargain was made. So, one spring day, Dad and I went to the pen of feeders behind the house and chose a promising one. I named him Buford--thus the "Buford Accord." Buford was a native of Montana and had come to Kansas in a load of feeder cattle Dad purchased. Some would later call Buford short and squatty--I preferred the term "compact and muscular." He had frozen his ear tips as a calf in a cold Montana winter, and looked a little silly, but Buford quickly became my buddy. He took to the halter, liked to have his neck scratched and didn't mind the fitting chute. Buford was a big jolly old guy and didn't give me a reason to dislike him. The end would have been easier if he had. Buford's big fair debut wasn't anything special. He was a red-ribbon entry in the end, but the fact that we competed was more important than our placing. I had met the first part of my goal. Inevitably, the morning of the auction came and with it the second part of my goal--the sale ring. I washed Buford one last time, careful not to smudge the painted sale numbers on his hip. I blew him dry, put on his show halter and then led him into the sale ring. The auctioneer, a family friend, knew Buford wasn't much to look at and most of the buyers weren't going to be enthusiastic about a red-ribbon steer. But, he talked up Buford's attributes enough that after a few spins around the auction ring the gavel came down at a price that was fair. We walked out of the ring and I handed Buford's halter lead to Dad, scratched his neck one last time, and promptly walked to the camper where I could have myself a good cry in private. My part of the bargain was over. It was up to Dad to live up to his end of the deal. A few hours later, Dad came back to the camper where I was moping. He just set his jaw, cleared his throat, and shuffled his big cowboy boots as he told me he was proud I'd followed through on the agreement. By the way he was looking, maybe I wasn't the only one who had become attached to the big dopey Buford. It took me a while to admit it, but Dad had been right to negotiate the Buford Accord. While I hurt for a little while, I did mature a bit. I faced the challenge to my emotions and learned I could handle the responsibility of selling a market animal. Buford was not meant to be a pet, afterall. In the following years, there would be other steers, and Dad kept his end of the Buford Accord each time. I never had to put one of my steers on that truck. Although, I think in keeping his end of the deal it hurt him more than me. I suppose that was the one result he didn't expect from the bargain. Jennifer Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com. Date: 8/10/04
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