Merry Christmas...

If you are not related to me, you may consider me an individual who lives in Las Vegas and is more concerned about his hair and skin care products than working the land or running a farm. And while that is 99 percent true, you probably don’t know that:

· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime

The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.

However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.

Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.

My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.

But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.

After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.

However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.

But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.

As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.

At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.

My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.

I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.

I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.