Child Farm Labor

Child abuse? We didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

In our day, we simply called it kids working on, or helping out on the farm!

One incident I remember well is our cattle roundup. Whenever my dad had a few calves old enough to sell on a Friday, we would round up the whole herd into the corral on the preceding Thursday. We had about 40 to 50 mama cows that were a mixture of mostly Brahman, or “bramers,” as we called them. Most of them had long sharp horns and would literally charge at you in the open, especially if they happened to have small calves. To me this was one of the most hated things to do - to round up these cows and chase the whole herd into a pen. Mom seldom did this so it was up to George, Georgia Mae, Virginia, daddy and me. Brothers John and Dennis were too little or too young at this particular time.

Unless you have worked cows, you may not know that there is usually a “maverick” or lead cow that goes in front of the herd. Whatever this cow does the rest of the herd will follow. On many occasions, we had half the herd and the lead cow in the pen when she bolted and ran back out. Naturally, the others would follow and we would have to start the whole process all over again. We had cotton hoe handles or sticks to help us pen the herd. Sometimes George would saddle up our old horse and ride him. But, the horse was old and out of shape and after thirty to 45 minutes of constant running he was all frothy, sweaty, and not much help any more. So us kids would have to run after the herd and try to head them towards the pen again.

An incident, on one occasion, in 1955 has stayed in my mind to this day. Virginia, my younger sister, was only about nine years old. Dad had her stationed in a strategic site next to a tree with instructions not to let any cows run by her. He had George and I chase the cows in.

All of a sudden, one cow bolted from the herd and ran toward Virginia. She stood her ground but seeing the cow had no thought of turning or stopping, Virginia hid behind a tree and let the cow go by. In doing so, the other cows followed suit! Well, in my Dad’s frustration, I will never forget him using strong language and pulling a bunch of broom weeds; and, holding the broom weeds by the top part, used the stem part to whip her on her legs! All this, just because she was only nine years old and afraid of a charging bramer cow with horns. This was the only time I ever saw him lay a hand on one of us. I guess he just took his frustration out on us instead of the cow!

After 1961, I was graduated from high school and had the good fortune of persuading my dad to order a scooter or moped from Montgomery Ward. I enjoyed riding this scooter on weekends with my cousin who had one also. But I mostly used it as a horse in rounding up the cattle at auction time roundup. Seems the cattle were more afraid of a motor scooter than a horse and it worked quite well.

I took good care of the scooter but one day I had a cow take off all the way back to the creek. It was July and 100 degrees plus that day. I had brought the cow back to the pen twice and she still turned and ran off again. But, I was determined not to have her win this battle. The fourth time I chased her up the hill to the pen; she was so worn out and overheated she literally turned on the scooter and me, charging in utter frustration. Well, I stood my ground, kept butting her with my motor bike until she finally decided enough was enough, and walked straight into the pen. My bike, however, was quite bent up, the headlamp was broken, and the cowl was bent out of shape; but I guess you could call me “the winner!”