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My boyhood farm jobs started at age six with opening gates for my father to drive through in his 38 Chevy and spreading two-handful piles of salt at ten-foot intervals in hilltop pasture cow trails, then calling the stock in to savor it with, “Coo sheep, Coo, Soo Calf, Soo,” until they arrived on the run to lick the salt up and be counted and inspected. This job came every Sunday afternoon as my father, his friend Jack Atkinson, a fellow farmer and N&W Trainman, and I inspected the stock on both their farms. This job I loved. Read more