Here is another story. My brain is now 90 years old, so it might be light fiction!
I spent the last two years of high school in the Omaha stockyards. Since the early part of the 20th century, 22,000 head of cattle had come through the stockyards every day. My life revolved around those 22,000. Bucking bales from railroad cards (90-lb. bales of prairie hay) into hay barns.
We would stack the hay to the roof of the hay barns. Right next to the roof was a bale not in tight. We would remove the bale. Immediately behind the bale, there was a long tunnel in the bales. We (17-year-old boys) would go into the tunnel and close up the entrance with the bale we had removed. At the other end of the tunnel, there was a square amphitheater with the baled hay as seats and the center for wrestling matches. We had sooey whip fights and wrestling matches. We could not be seen or heard. It was soundproof
One other activity was removing the excrement from the cattle and hog yards with fire hoses, two men on each hose. This also meant water fights.
On Saturdays, we would pitch sheep manure in the sheep houses. Almost all of the hogs, sheep, and cattle had gone to the packers by Friday afternoon. One Saturday, we heard a high-pitched, “Baaaaaa!” It did not take long to find the lonely lamb that had been left by the packers. We all wanted it, but everyone else lived in the Omaha city limits. I lived on ten acres at 45th in Harrison in Sarpy County.
I went out into the cattle yard and found a cow making much noise. It had not been milked, so it was hurting. I got a bucket for fighting fire and milked the cow. I diluted the milk with water and went back into the sheep barn. I put my right hand into the bucket with my little finger sticking up. With my left hand, I held the lamb’s head down with its mouth over my little finger. We kept the lamb alive.
I did not know how to get it home on a city bus. Animals were not permitted. I had to hide it in a paper grocery sack hoping the driver would think I had groceries. When I got on the bus, the grocery sack went, “Baaaaa.” I named it Mary Ann after a high school classmate who had a lot of flaming red hair. There was no connection. (The lamb did not have red hair.)
Since I was at school or working, my mother had Mary Ann. And Mary Ann thought my mother was her mother and went everywhere my mother went. She would jump in and out of the clothes basket when mother was hanging clothes. A few weeks later, we found Mary Ann dead under the house. We found no reason.
I spent the last two years of high school in the Omaha stockyards. Since the early part of the 20th century, 22,000 head of cattle had come through the stockyards every day. My life revolved around those 22,000. Bucking bales from railroad cards (90-lb. bales of prairie hay) into hay barns.
We would stack the hay to the roof of the hay barns. Right next to the roof was a bale not in tight. We would remove the bale. Immediately behind the bale, there was a long tunnel in the bales. We (17-year-old boys) would go into the tunnel and close up the entrance with the bale we had removed. At the other end of the tunnel, there was a square amphitheater with the baled hay as seats and the center for wrestling matches. We had sooey whip fights and wrestling matches. We could not be seen or heard. It was soundproof
One other activity was removing the excrement from the cattle and hog yards with fire hoses, two men on each hose. This also meant water fights.
On Saturdays, we would pitch sheep manure in the sheep houses. Almost all of the hogs, sheep, and cattle had gone to the packers by Friday afternoon. One Saturday, we heard a high-pitched, “Baaaaaa!” It did not take long to find the lonely lamb that had been left by the packers. We all wanted it, but everyone else lived in the Omaha city limits. I lived on ten acres at 45th in Harrison in Sarpy County.
I went out into the cattle yard and found a cow making much noise. It had not been milked, so it was hurting. I got a bucket for fighting fire and milked the cow. I diluted the milk with water and went back into the sheep barn. I put my right hand into the bucket with my little finger sticking up. With my left hand, I held the lamb’s head down with its mouth over my little finger. We kept the lamb alive.
I did not know how to get it home on a city bus. Animals were not permitted. I had to hide it in a paper grocery sack hoping the driver would think I had groceries. When I got on the bus, the grocery sack went, “Baaaaa.” I named it Mary Ann after a high school classmate who had a lot of flaming red hair. There was no connection. (The lamb did not have red hair.)
Since I was at school or working, my mother had Mary Ann. And Mary Ann thought my mother was her mother and went everywhere my mother went. She would jump in and out of the clothes basket when mother was hanging clothes. A few weeks later, we found Mary Ann dead under the house. We found no reason.
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