I recently stopped for a school bus. That’s not big news. It is an example of things happening the way they should. I was facing the bus and could see past it, noticing that the cars behind it had also stopped exactly as they should.
The lights flashed, the stop sign on the bus opened, and the safety arm across the front of the bus swung wide.
Four or five kids got off the bus. They ranged in size from tiny ones with outsized backpacks to some older ones. They came around the front of the bus. So far, so good.
Some ran, some walked in front of the bus and across the highway.
When they started across my lane, I started yelling at them even though there was no way they could hear me. They didn’t stop or even pause to look up and down the road. Fortunately, everything was working the way it should. Well, almost everything. I think the kids were supposed to look both ways.
Safety shouldn’t be delegrated; it should be shared.
“Mr. Boomsma”
Sometimes, things don’t work the way they should. I can think of several ways that might have been the case. Several days later, there was a headline from a distant state where someone didn’t stop for a school bus, and a child was injured.
If we want kids to feel and be safe, we need to involve them. It wouldn’t be so bad for them to learn they have some responsibility for staying safe. A few seconds-long pause to look up and down the road is just plain smart.
Perhaps parents should meet the bus at the start of the school year and ensure the kids do. I’d be happy if the bus driver kept the window open and told the kids to stop and look—at least until they got into the habit. It’s been a few years since I’ve attended a school bus safety program, but I’d be thrilled if crossing in front of the bus was part of that curriculum. Safety shouldn’t be delegated; it should be shared.
I’m not sure about that, but I am honored to be included in a photo on the front page of the Midwest Ox Drovers Association!
The photo was taken during my workshop at Tillers International in Michigan. I seem to recall now that included an “honorary” subscription to the MODA Newsletter. I remember this photo well. From left to right are fellow student Julia, her Mom in the back, Instructor Tom, and yours truly–checking my phone for a photo I took of the situation. If you look closely, you will see that Julia and Tom are sitting on one of his oxen. Tom had explained that oxen can serve many purposes. He had the large Brown Swiss (breed, not where they came from) lay down to accommodate them.
A drover is “someone who moves groups of animals, especially cattle or sheep, from one place to another.” So I think it’s fair to say I have been a drover. That was the whole point of attending the workshop. Or so I thought. However, I recently questioned whether it was about driving oxen or communicating with them. But can I consider myself a drover?
I’ve also done my share of herding escaped cows, but if we’re going to be precise, some would suggest that cows are not cattle. There’s no complete agreement, and there are regional differences in terms of use. At least one common distinction is that cows are “girls” and cattle are “boys.” But wait. It’s not that simple.
A female bovine (safe terminology) might be a heifer, not a cow. She’s not a cow until she’s reproduced.
I am suddenly reminded of being with my oldest daughter at a fair when she was still a toddler. As we traipsed through one of the barns, she proclaimed loudly and repeatedly, “Daddy! I know how to tell the boy cows from the girl cows!” I congratulated her but didn’t encourage further discussion. I wasn’t sure I wanted everyone to hear the answer. As only a three-year-old can, she persisted, becoming increasingly loud and demanding. “Do you wanna know how?”
I finally conceded, and she said emphatically, “The boys have rings in their noses.” Her powers of observation were intact, although I’ve never figured out how she drew that conclusion from what she’d seen.
Not all boy cows cattle have rings in their noses, not all boy cattle become steers, and not all steers become oxen. You probably don’t feel a need to know the distinctions. Neither did Bethanie.
At a more recent fair, I saw a young boy running towards some goats, yelling, “Oh look! Sheep!” I can forgive some imprecision in farm vocabulary by non-farmers—I’m sometimes guilty myself—but I was also relieved to hear a parent correct him.
While we’re at it, let’s ensure people know that chocolate milk doesn’t just come from brown cows—well, it might—but from all different colors of cows, including brown. I may not be considered a drover, but I do know a few things about bovines.
Which reminds me. During the workshop, one of the best and most accurate definitions of “oxen” we were given was, “Oxen are bovines with an education.” Sometimes, it’s important to be precise. Sometimes, it’s more important to be simple than to be precise. Both precision and simplicity can be accurate. Choose wisely.
This morning, I read an interesting but disturbing story on my favorite Amish-related site, Amish America. I recommend the site and story to you, but the short version is that a Wisconsin man is concerned about an Amish School located in a hazardous location due to blind hills and curves. He’s lobbying local authorities (somewhat unsuccessfully) to put in school warning signs on the road.
The Amish are aware of his efforts. An unidentified member of the Amish Community sent Jim Kostohrys (a retired police officer) a letter of appreciation.
The last line of that letter might be the real story here. It expresses appreciation and support for Kostohrys’ efforts.
“Let us live together in a respectful way.”
A large part of my appreciation for the Amish is their effort to keep things simple. That sentence is a simple but elegant example.
Our (non-Amish) system of problems-solving seems less than simple. In spite of the efforts and media attention, it appears little progress has been made towards taking steps to protect these young scholars.
Amish children and one room Amish schools are important. It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that more than one person has suggested moving the Amish school to a better location. That’s not a particularly simple solution, but it reflects the belief this is an “Amish Problem.”
So, at least in theory, I recently learned how to work with an oxen team. I’d been saying that I was going to learn to drive oxen. Among my many discoveries was that working with oxen is more about communicating with them than driving them.
“Whooooa, Boys!” Notice I am moving the goad in front of them.
I heard one of my instructors say more than once. “You’re confusing them. They don’t know what you want them to do!” Staying focused on communicating was a bigger challenge than it might seem. And at times, it was funny. Mostly though, it was frustrating!
In brief, trained oxen receive information from the teamster in three ways. The first is (or at least should be) spatial—the body position of the teamster. Second is the “goad” or stick and where and how they are touched. The third is verbal. There is some indication that they hear vowels best. So “whoooooa” works better than “whoa.” The best example of confusing them was when I’d say, “Whoa!” but keep walking. (In my mind, it made sense because I wanted to get in front of them. In their bovine minds, I was sending mixed signals.)
Instructor Rob is a school teacher. We had lots of fun making comparisons. One was the comment, “What you’re doing shouts louder than what you’re saying.” You don’t have to work with kids for long before you realize “Do as I say and not as I do” doesn’t work well.
While a 2,000+ pound ox doesn’t engage in what we call “higher levels of reasoning,” the basics are the same. That said, two of the teams I worked with were extremely well-trained. One team of Devons would stand and let me walk some distance away. I could then raise my goad and call, “Right here, boys,” and they would walk to me and stop with their heads on either side of me.
We students had to learn a bit about herd instinct and survival from predators. Rob occasionally reminded us that building trust with the beasts was important. “You may have to convince them you’re not trying to kill them.” Herd instinct requires they accept you as the top ox.
Here’s an interesting comparison. My Ram pickup truck weighs about the same as a large pair of oxen. During Road Trip 2024, I drove that truck over 3,600 miles, mostly by pushing pedals, turning the wheel, and flipping switches. (I’m purposely omitting occasional arguments with the voice feature of the GPS.) The truck doesn’t have a mind of its own or any instincts. It just does what you tell it to do.
Oxen require a bit more understanding and communication than my truck or your car. You can’t just drive them. One of the things I found challenging is the amount of attention required with oxen, particularly when pulling something. There is no cruise control!
Of course, all analogies break down if you press them, but in addition to the joy of working with these large animals, it was great to be reminded of some of the basic truths about effective communication. I’m still processing, but a few important lessons can be learned.
Don’t send mixed messages! If you say “whoa,” stop moving. Remember: “What you are doing is shouting so loud I can’t hear what you’re saying.” Let’s get everything aligned.
Use multiple communication strategies! Oxen expect to be told and shown by position and the goad. With humans, say it, write it, demonstrate it. I’m not suggesting you email someone and ask if they got your text. Texting serves a different purpose than emailing or calling. Chose wisely.
Speak the language of the listener! With oxen, “Come here!” is not the same as “Right here!” Be conscious of buzzwords and implied meanings. Do you want me to do something, or do you need me to do something? Also, oxen can’t talk back. Humans can. Take advantage of that by asking humans what they heard or read.
Use the listener’s name freely! To make a team of oxen turn sharp left, one has to slow down and perhaps stop completely—it’s like driving a bulldozer. You’ll need to tell one ox (by name), “Haw!” and the other (by name), “Whoa!” (The goad and your body position are important. Use multiple communication strategies!)
When we want a team of oxen to do something, good communication is effective. “Driving” is not. Picture grabbing a 2,000-pound animal by the horns and making him stop. It’s not likely to happen. Picture yourself being dragged in the direction the team chooses. It might make for a funny video to post on social media, but it’s not likely to achieve the desired result.
When done correctly, communication is powerful. It beats driving any day once you get the hang of it.
You don’t have to answer, but I hope you’ll wonder just a little bit. This is a gravesite stone in the “old” Abbot Village Cemetery across from the town hall. You can still make out the word “Baby,” but you can likely surmise this child lived some years ago. The stone is worn, covered with lichen, and discolored, so I guess we don’t know who this is—or was.
My goal is to encourage curiosity, not sadness. Particularly as we age, we do tend to think about “legacy.” Most commonly (and the dictionary supports this), we think of our legacy as the amount of money or property we leave behind. It’s one way we will be remembered. Gravestones are another.
This child, or perhaps more accurately the family, “left behind” this small stone. I was reminded of the child’s short life during the few hours I spent recently volunteering to help the Abbot Historical Society clean gravestones. I found “Baby” in the family plot I was offered as my project.
After some spraying and scrubbing, the special solution we used will continue to work, and hopefully, the stains will lighten.
As I worked, I learned a bit more about “Baby.” He was the infant son of George and Sara Bradman. While his lifespan isn’t documented with dates, based on his parents’ stone, he probably lived his short life on Earth in the mid-to-late 1800s.
I mentioned all this to a good friend in an email. Jack replied, “Everyone does their best to make life work… Keeping gravestones clean is a nice reminder of how the system works. Not a bad spiritual exercise.”
Without getting too theological, I hope Baby Bradman and his parents are pleased with my work. I think our little town of Abbot is a better place, not just because this cemetery will look better when the project is finished, but because we are showing that we care about our community and its legacy. The spiritual exercise and reminder of how the system works was a bonus.
But wait, there’s more! Spending a few hours with like-minded coworkers was enjoyable. Everything we needed was provided, including materials, tools, support, and encouragement. We all paused briefly when a passing car repeatedly blew its horn, and the driver leaned out the window, waving and yelling, “Thank you!”
This was one of those occasions when the work itself was the reward. If you live in Abbot, keep an eye and ear open for the next opportunity. You can also contact Brian at the Abbot Historical Society. I won’t be surprised if you join this effort for a few hours and decide to do more.
Please note that cleaning gravestones must be done properly to prevent damage! Visiting an older cemetery can provide an appreciation for how fragile “permanent” stones are!
Walter Boomsma (“Mr. Boomsma”) writes on a wide array of topics including personal development, teaching and learning. Course information is also available here!
