When I was a little girl, my dad and my great-grandpa began early to groom me to become their farming partner. On weekends and holidays, I carefully helped my dad steer the tractor and feed wagon along the feed bunks, kept an eye on the water in the stock tank so that it did not run over, and helped count cattle. I was included on trips to the grain elevator, implement dealers, the vet, and sometimes, to the St. Joe Stockyards to watch the cattle sell. From an early age, I was secure in my future. I would be a farmer-stockman stockwoman. I had my own cow and calf, and a small college savings account. I would learn the new ways of farming and raising livestock and bring them back home to the farm. Bearing this in mind, the trips to the stockyards were essential for my future career.
The cattle would be loaded the afternoon before they were to be sold into a straight truck or a ‘possum belly, depending upon the number of head. Next, the cattle were hauled to the St. Joseph stockyards and kept in a pen overnight.
For this particular trip to sell livestock, dad and mom had decided that I would be allowed to miss school and my piano lesson on the following day. On Thursday I would go with the men to St. Joe to sell the cattle. Then there would be only one more day of school that week! The next Thursday would be Thanksgiving and a short week of school. Things were looking good!
It was hard to sleep that night. I was excited! Early Thursday morning, after doing the chores in the semi-dark, my great-grandpa, grandpa, dad, and I would make the big trip east to St. Joseph, MO.
As soon as the car approached the steel bridge over the Missouri River, someone in the front seat commented on the putrid odor of the walnut processing factories and the packing plants. Slowing down as we crossed the bridge and went past Murphy’s Restaurant, my great-grandpa asked me if I was ready for a brain sandwich. Of course, he knew that I was always ready to eat anything that wasn’t nailed down. I nodded and smiled. However, what I really was hoping for was a catfish at the Hoof and Horn. That would be after a huge chocolate ice cream cone at the Exchange Building café. And then, if we had a late start in the afternoon, we still might be able to enjoy a quick brain sandwich at Murphy’s as we began the trip home.
Next, we drove by an enormous pile of bovine bones and offal piled alongside the street in front of the slaughter house, ready for the bone meal plant. This grisly sight reminded me of the responsibilities we had as stock people to make sure our animals had a good life, and just one bad day. Of such was the reality of livestock careers.
Finally, the beautiful St. Joseph, Missouri Stockyards and Exchange Building came into view. The excitement was nearly unbearable. My dad parked the car. We all climbed out onto the St. Joseph Stock Exchange hallowed ground.
“Whoop! Who let you out, you ornery cuss?”
Shouts and greetings echoed across the dawn air. Some of the order buyers and other sellers would cluster at our car, and visit a few minutes. The weather, prices, and the ineptitude of politicians were the usual topics. Impatient, I wanted to get the event underway. We needed to start at the Exchange Building, then work our way out to the stockyard pens. The ritual was important.
Finally, we climbed the cement steps up to the heavy door of the Exchange Building. Once inside, Dad gave me a slight nod, pointing me towards the ladies’ bathroom. I was 8 years old, and knew how to navigate for myself. I pulled open the heavy wood and glass door. Stenciled on the glass in fancy gilt letters were the words, “The Ladies’ Lounge”. Therein was the most lavish and modern of lavatory accoutrements I had ever encountered. A plush white sofa and two matching chairs were arranged behind a small glass-topped table. A fresh bouquet of hothouse flowers made the room smell like springtime. There was a second door on which was stenciled “toilets”. This part of The Ladies’ Lounge was the true wonder. I pushed open the second door. There they were. The most scientific, elegant and amazing 1963 toilets available. Each scientifically designed seat was sanitized and heated with ultra-violet light. This procedure was to clean the toilet seat and to kill germs between customers. Here’s how the toilet worked: A prospective user would pull down on the molded side-handle of the sanitized “picture frame”, disengaging it from the glowing vertical disinfecting oval that was fastened to the toilet’s open lid. The warm and clean toilet seat slowly lowered to settle on the white china water chamber. At this point, one would plant one’s derrière on the oh-so-warm, ultra-violet-light-cleaned seat. Especially in the cold winter weather, such a luxury was doubly appreciated. Concluding actions included an automatic flush followed by the vacated toilet seat rising slowly to the waiting vertical sanitizing dock. With a small “click”, the toilet seat settled in place. The ultra-violet light brightened as it began its job of sanitizing before the next user. It was all very exciting.
I washed my hands at the sparkling white sink, reflected in the row of mirrors all around the papered walls. A pause at the roller towel finished the job. As the heavy door closed behind me, I spotted my family talking with St. Joe stockyards folk in the center of the Exchange Building hall. I recognized Cecil Baker, Morris Hertz, Jack Baker, Russ Hallberg, Freddie Hertz, Joe Wood and Jimmy Clark, and several men wearing Swift and Henry shirts. Shy before all of these businessmen, I sidled up and stood near the pliers’ pocket of my dad’s overalls.
“So now who is this? Susie?” Cecil Baker would always ask the same question. He knew my name. He just liked to tease a little bit.
As per usual, I would shake my head.
Mr. Baker would continue to ask other names, and then would finally say, “It wouldn’t be Carol, would it?”
When I nodded “yes”, Cecil Baker, the owner of the Cecil Baker Livestock Commission Company would reach deep into his pocket and pull out 2 quarters.
“Here! Now you go and get a great big chocolate ice cream cone. That way, you can get more of it on your shirt!”
“Thank you, Mr. Baker.” I knew my manners. And I knew where the ice cream counter was in the Exchange Building.
With my great-grandpa as my escort, I politely asked the ice cream lady for a large chocolate ice cream cone, while laying the 2 quarters on the marble counter. In a couple of minutes, she would hand me 8 inches of dark chocolate ice cream, expertly packed to the very bottom of the napkin-wrapped cone.
Licking the chocolate ice cream, Grandpa and I rejoined the other men. We went outside to the cattle pens. Cowboys riding ponies or horses trotted after small groups of cattle, guiding them to the correct pens. Once the cattle were in the pen, the cowboy would jump to the ground and close the gate. Next, the cowboy would enter the tiny hut or “dog house” to ring up the ramrod to report the correct number of calves and the pen number. Almost every dog house had a tobacco-covered spittoon in the corner. Outside, the experienced horses stood by; nonchalant, munching a little hay as they waited for the next assignment.
While the other men talked prices, my great-grandpa and I began to walk towards the sheep pens. A calico mama cat with a mouse clenched in her teeth passed us on the flat board walk. She ducked into one of several hay stashes along the board walk. “Shall we see how many kitties she has?” Grandpa asked.
We looked inside the stash and nestled in the timothy hay bales was a nest of kittens. Their eyes were open and they were fat as butterballs. Three orange kitties lined up to nurse, and a little calico and a black one commenced to fighting over the mouse their mother had brought to her family. After petting the pretty mama cat and her little kittens, Grandpa and I turned to go back on the boardwalk towards the sheep.
“Look! Here comes the Judas goat!” On their way to the slaughter house alley, the sheep followed the goat. The cowboys on their horses had little to do as the sheep took themselves to their final destination. Once the sheep were all in the alleyway, the cowboys closed the gates behind them. The Judas goat leapt lightly from the ground to the backs of the sheep, and with one more jump, landed on the board walk with Grandpa and me. The goat glanced at us, paused and bleated. Deciding we were of no use to him, the goat trotted back towards the stock yards entry for some oats. There he would await the next herd of sheep that needed a leader to show them the way.
That was all the sheep for us to see. We took another path on the board walk and were soon at the pen where our own cattle waited. Talk of shrinkage, hang weight, dressed out and percentages filled the air. Each man was writing with a stub bullet pencil on pages in a small notebook. Eventually, a price was agreed upon. Jimmy Clark rode up on his paint pony and guided our cattle to another pen where other cattle were already eating hay.
When we stepped off the board walk, a man with a big camera was waiting. I recognized his voice as he began speaking, “Hello. My name is Gene Francis. I am with the markets out of St. Joe. Would you mind if I take a picture of you?”
Grandpa agreed to the picture. Amazingly, in almost no time, Gene Francis handed Grandpa a copy of the black and white picture.
“There is a copy for you to keep. Thank you for letting me take the picture. Be sure to watch at noon in a couple of days. We will be showing your picture on television.”
It hardly seemed real. Our picture on tv? Famous people were on tv. Not us.
We spotted our group across the south pens and made our way to them. Dad motioned for us to hurry.
It was already afternoon, and the ice cream cone had worn off. I was hungry again. I listened hopefully. Sure enough, there was talk of the Hoof and Horn. Cecil Baker was taking us to the Hoof and Horn! Our family hurried out to our car and climbed in. We would meet Cecil Baker and others at the restaurant.
Opening the door to the Hoof and Horn was better than Gunsmoke. Reflecting in the mirrors behind the enormous wooden bar were rows and rows of colorful, beautiful bottles. Hanging on the walls were cowboy pictures and stuffed bison heads and enormous horns from longhorn bulls. Spittoons were strategically placed around the footrest at the bar. The smoky air smelled of steak and cigars and livestock. The sounds of laughter and clinking cutlery against heavy white plates lent additional excitement to the atmosphere. A gentleman directed us to a large booth. I didn’t need a menu. I knew exactly what I would be having. When my turn came to order, I spoke up loud and clear:
“I’d like a combination salad with French dressing, please. A whole fried catfish and French fries. And a glass of water to drink, please.”
For some reason, the entire side of the restaurant broke into laughter. I figured I had missed out on a joke when I was dreaming of catfish.
The rest of the table ordered steaks, and set about swapping cattle stories and speculating on the Chicago Board of Trade. Thinking about the catfish, I barely heard snatches of conversation about pork bellies, replacements cattle and grain prices.
The waiter brought everyone a salad and crackers. Things quieted down while we all ate. Next, the waiter appeared with enormous plates filled with fragrant steaks, potatoes and baskets of bread and butter.
There was one plate with a giant fried catfish and French fries. That was for me. The kind waiter set the delicious catfish in front of me. I squeezed the lemon quarters on the smoking catfish, doused the French fries with catsup and dug in. I ate the first side of the cat fish. It hadn’t even had time to cool. Flipping it over, I squeezed more lemon juice on side two, and started mowing it down. Occasionally, I took a big swig of water, and ate a few French fries. The hot roll and butter were lovely.
It seemed quiet. Still chewing, I looked around. The men had barely started on their steaks. Cecil Baker threw back his head and he laughed and laughed. Still laughing, he called over the waiter named Bud.
“Now Bud, listen. You get this girl another cat fish. As soon as she finishes one side, you bring out another one. She needs to have all the cat fish she can eat.”
Sure enough, right away, another big catfish was set down and the empty plate was whisked away. I made it through 3 and a half catfish that day at the Hoof and Horn. Thanks to Cecil Baker, I had my fill of the crispy fried fish and French fries.
After the meal, I thanked Mr. Baker for the good cat fish and for the chocolate ice cream cone. Everybody shook hands and our family settled in the car for the ride home.
We passed by the darkened slaughter house and an even bigger pile of bones. No lights there.
I began to feel drowsy.
Grandpa patted my knee. “So are you ready for that brain sandwich at Murphy’s?” I thought a minute, then shook my head. For once, I had actually reached my limit with 3 and a half catfish dinners. Murphy’s would have to wait.
I knew that my great-grandpa would tell the story over and over of Carol – me – eating those catfish one right after another. My great-grandma would slap her knee and laugh. Then, when she was serious again, she would ask my great-grandpa if I had minded my manners.
My great-grandpa would reassure her that I did say please and thank you, and behaved like a good girl.
My future as a farmer and stock-woman looked safe and secure. As long as the St. Joe stockyards were in Missouri, the Judas goat would do his job. The mama kitty would take mice to her kittens. Mr. Cecil Baker and his friends would keep the livestock commission running along in fine fettle. Gene Francis would chant the markets while we ate our noon dinners. My great-grandpa would be sure that I would grow up to be his partner.
My eyes closed to a night that was bright and full of promise as I drifted off to sleep.
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