Good Fences Make a Good Herd

“Okay boys, load 'em up,” Dale instructed his two oldest sons. “We've got a lot of work to do."

Fifteen-year-old Caleb and thirteen-year-old Scott nodded as they began loading eight foot locust posts onto the forks of the Gehl skid loader. It was early spring and the family was weeks away from putting the heard of mixed breed cows out to pasture for the first time of the new year. Their father had made his rounds on the pasture perimeters a few days earlier, making notes of repairs that needed to be made. With a dozen posts on the forks of the red skid steer, a red hydraulic post driver on the front end of the of the John Deere 4020, a bucket of fence maintenance tools, and a spool of barbed wire, the Henning trio was ready to go.

“Caleb, you drive the skid steer,” Dale instructed his oldest son. “Scott, you're riding shotgun,” he tapped the left fender of the tractor as he addressed his second son.

Both boys were eager to oblige. Caleb climbed into the cab of the skid steer and turned the key, bringing the diesel engine to life. He grasped both joysticks and pushed the left one forward, causing the machine to surge forward. Scott climbed up onto his father's tractor and sat on the fender, firmly grasping the ends to ensure the continued stability of his position on the large machine. Dale put the tractor in gear and let his foot off the clutch. The tractor surged forward, quickly overtaking the skid loader on the way to the pasture.

Scott watched the deep treads of the large tractor tire pass withing inches of his fingers. Being so close to the tires made him feel like he was getting away with something. All he had to do was stretch his fingers toward the tires and the tread woulds hit his hand. It might hurt or it might not, but he wasn't going to find out. He smiled to himself as he looked out towards the lower pasture to the east. A cool spring breeze tussled his sandy blond hair as the warmth of the sun spread across his chest. The contrast of the cool wind against the sun's warmth caused goosebumps to spread across the young man's arms. His body twitched as a shiver ran down his spine, causing a slight chuckle to escape the boy's lips.

“What are you laughing about?” Dale asked over the sound of the engine.

“Nothing,” Scott replied. “I just got a chill.”

The boy's father nodded as he turned the tractor down a slight incline into the hickory pasture. The hickory pasture was named for the line of hickory and pig hickory trees that ran with the west fence that separated the pasture from the oil well drive. (The difference between hickory trees and pig hickorys was in their nuts. The hickory nut was edible while the pig hickory nut was not.) Every pasture had a name to distinguish it from the others. The pasture directly across from the hickory pasture was referred to as the pie pasture because of it's triangular shape. The next one up the hill was the cherry tree pasture, named for the wild cherry trees that grew within it's boundaries. The next pasture up the hill was called the hill pasture because it was the steepest part of the large hill. The pasture below the hickory pasture was called the heifer pasture. This was for two reasons. There was an old barn that sat on the western fence line that was built specifically for heifers, though it hadn't been used to house heifers for years. The pasture was also used primarily for heifers because a large portion of the pasture was wet and muddy. Dale didn't put milking cows in that pasture because he didn't like them coming back to the barn with their udders covered in mud. 

Dale guided his tractor through the grass towards the east fence. He pulled up to a post that appeared to be leaning heavily to the outside. As they got closer, it became obvious to the rider that the post had broken off at the ground and was only being held upright by the barbed wire that was attached to the post. The tractor stopped a few feet short of the fence and the father and son dismounted. Dale pulled the fencing bucket out of the side box and started rummaging through the contents in search of his fencing pliers. He pulled them out just as his eldest son pulled up with the skid loader.

“We're starting with this one,” he stated over the drone of the dueling diesel engines.

Dale approached the sagging post with the pliers in hand. The fencing pliers were specifically designed for the task at hand. The business end of the tool was shaped kinda like a pterodactyl head. One jaw had a blunt side that could be used as a hammer while the other side came to a point. The actual jaw of the pliers was pointed with relief divots withing the jaw which gave it a beak like quality. Dale grasped the old staples with the beak shaped jaws of the pliers and rolled the curved part of the jaw across the old locust post, effectively removing the staple and freeing the first of four barbed wire strands. The next three staples were removed with equal efficiency and the post was tossed aside. Scott picked up a new post and carried it towards the fence as Caleb mounted the tractor. 

He put the tractor in gear and watched his father's upraised hands for directions. He inched the tractor forwards until Dale's hand clenched into a tight fist. Caleb hit the brakes, bringing the large piece of machinery to an immediate stop. He put it in park and dismounted. Dale took the eight foot long locust post from his second son and stood it up in the cavity of the red post pounding attachment on the front of the 4020. The post pounder was made up of an eight foot long chamber that was completely open on the front. The chamber was about eight inches deep and just as wide. There was a large steel plate on the end of a hydraulic cylinder that was controlled by a lever on the side of the pounding chamber. A large spring ran parallel to the cylinder t assist with retracting the pounding plate. The chamber could be adjusted to plumb by one crank handle on the side and one on the back. Dale adjusted the plumb of the pounder until he was satisfied that it was standing straight up and down before grabbing the lever.

“Okay, boys,” he addressed his sons. “Stand back and keep your hands clear.”

The boys eagerly obliged as their father pushed the lever forward. The engine of the tractor labored as the post ponder drew power. The cylinder pushed the pounding plate down with considerable force causing a loud crack as the plate made contact with the top of the hardwood post. The spring clanged against the cylinder as Dale pulled the lever towards him causing the plate to retract. He pushed the lever forward again, striking the post again before the plate retracted to the top. Every time the plate hit, he post was driven a little further into to ground. Every time the pounding plate hit the post, it took just a little longer to reach the top again. Finally, after about a minute of rhythmic pounding, the pounder maxed out. Caleb backed the tractor away from the newly planted post which was now half buried in the grassy pasture.

Dale gave his son the signal to shut down the tractor and turned to Scott.

“Hand me the Chicago slugger.”

Scott reached into the bucket and handed his father a twenty-two ounce straight claw framing hammer with electrical tape wrapped around the handle. The boys never asked why their father referred to this particular hammer as “the Chicago slugger” and Dale never offered an explanation. Everyone seemed to agree that this hammer was the slugger simply because it was the slugger and no other explanation was necessary. Dale pulled a large staple out of an old soup can and proceeded to fastened the barbed wire to the new post. The boys watched in amazement as he skillfully drove each staple tightly with only three well aimed hits. The only wire that didn't get fastened with the staple was the top wire. A porcelain insulator with a hole all the way through the center was fastened to the post with a sixteen penny nail. The wire was fastened to the insulator with a short piece of bailing wire. The top wire of the fence was electrified to discourage the herd from pushing through the boundaries of the pasture.

“Dad,” Scott ventured. “Why don't you electrify the other wires?”

“You don't really need to,” Dale responded. “Seasoned milking cows are already used to being put out to pasture. Besides, if you don't run any juice through the bottom wire, the cows will eat the grass under the fence and keep it clear of any growth that would short out the fence. An electric fence is useless if it gets grounded out by tall grass. The other option is to send you out here once a month with the weedeater to knock down the tall growth.”

“I like your plan better,” Caleb smiled as his younger brother nodded in agreement.

The three men shared a chuckle before moving on to the next problem post. The rest of the afternoon went by fairly quickly. The fence repair crew replaced several posts and addressed several other issues. Finally, they came to a section of the fence where the one of the wires sagged low enough to touch the wire underneath. Dale walked over to the corner post and pulled the wire as tightly as he could by hand. He directed one of the boys to hold it in place as he pulled the fencing pliers from his back pocket. He gripped the wire in the jaw of the pliers on the handle side of the pivot point. He braced the jaw of the pliers against the post and pulled the wire even tighter by using the post as a fulcrum. He directed his other son to hold the pliers while he grabbed the slugger and a fresh staple. He pounded the staple in tight and directed his sons to let go of the wire. He nodded with satisfaction at the tautness of the wire.

“Well,” the eldest Henning mused. “I guess that's about it. Caleb, I'd like you to take the 4020 back to the barn and turn on the fencer so we can check to make sure there's juice everywhere we want it. Whistle when it's on and then bring the three wheeler back out.”

“Okie dokie,” Caleb responded with satisfaction as he mounted the large tractor.

“What are we going to do?” Scott inquired of his father.

“We're going to load all the posts onto the skid steer,” Dale replied. “And when we get the signal, we're going to check the fence.”

“How are we going to do that?” Scott asked apprehensively.

“You feel shocks, right?” his father replied with a slight grin on his face. “I'm kidding,” he continued as Scott's eyes widened. “I'll show you when we get to that point.”

Scott sighed in relief as he and his father set to work piling the old posts onto the forks of the skid loader. They made good time because the posts were lighter than the new ones that they had brought out. They were completely dried out from standing in the sun and most of them were shorter from rotting and breaking off just below ground. They had just tossed the last post on the forks when they heard a clear two tone whistle sound out across the clear spring air. Dale turned towards the barn and whistled a three tone progression in response and waited. Hearing no response, he turned back to the fence satisfied that his oldest son had heard his response.

He picked up a steel rod that was about four feet long. He walked over to the fence and stuck the end of the rod into the ground and motioned for Scott to watch. He pulled his pen from his breast pocket and pushed the rod against the point of one of the barbs. The contact of the two pieces of metal resulted in a spark that was both visible and audible. The spark sounded like a tooth pick snapping.

“Wow,” Scott commented. “I guess we have juice.”

“Yes we do,” his father agreed as the two of them walked along the fence, checking for electricity every twenty or thirty feet. 

Just as they finished, Caleb drove the Honda 350 three wheeler into the pasture. Dale and Scott met him at the skid loader. Dale climbed into the skid loader and Scott hopped onto the back rack of the three wheeler and allowed his feet to dangle as he faced away from the direction of travel. The boys headed back, being careful to act responsibly because they knew their father was following. They parked the three wheeler between the house and the summer house and watched as their father dumped his payload onto the burn pile. He parked and joined his sons as they walked into the back porch.

“How'd you do?” Christa inquired of the trio.

“We did good,” Dale replied with a satisfied nod. “We accomplished what we intended. You can't ask for much more than that.”