When I was six, my father gave me
the long bow he had used as a young boy. This made
my world, the sagebrush plains of Eastern Montana,
one safari after another and I carried my bow and
arrows wherever I went. One afternoon, all the
family was packed in the front seat of the pickup,
bouncing our way across the prairie, when a patch of
fresh gumbo jumped from behind a clump of greasewood
and snatched the pickup. Getting unstuck involved
Dad jacking each tire out of the mud and shoving
fence posts or rocks underneath the wheels. We three
boys were sent hunting for stuff to cram under the
tires. Rocks and posts are elusive in gumbo country,
I quickly became bored and so it took little effort
for my bow and arrow to convince me to go hunting
instead. Within an hour, I had hunted my way out of
shouting distance from the pickup. Dad and my two
brothers eventually freed the pickup, and while
driving home they stopped long enough to let me
crawl in the cab. No one said a word as we rattled
back to the ranch, but I knew I was in big trouble.
Back at home, Dad invited me to accompany him to the
barn to help milk the cow and feed the bucket
calves. It was an offer I could not refuse.
Dad was not the beating type, but he could deliver a
lecture so serious it could scar the usually
impervious soul of a six-year-old boy. Mom, on the
other hand, seemed to relish delivering a good
thrashing, especially if it involved lots of
hollering and tears; some of which actually might
come from me or my brothers. As we walked to the
barn, I regretted the bad decision I had made hours
before, but I was thankful barn chores were Dad’s
responsibility and not Mom’s. The exact words of
Dad’s lecture are forever lost to time, but I
remember sitting alone in the dark barn thinking
long after he clicked off the light and walked back
to the house. His point was made and I have viewed
milk cows with trepidation ever since.
As an amazing coincidence, 45 years later, I found
myself once again trapped in a darkened structure
called Montana’s capitol addressing an issue
surrounded by milk cows. (Actually, it is not a
coincidence; I told this story on purpose.) It was
2009 and Senator Taylor Brown introduced SB286, an
“act generally revising milk control laws.” This
bill pitted one group of dairy farmers against
another, and one side had to be lying, but to this
day I do not know who was. As I typically hold dairy
farmers in the highest regard, it was the most
frustrating 30 days in my legislative career.
Eventually, a two-year sunset clause was added to
SB286, and I voted to pass the bill just to be rid
of it. In 2011, Senator Brown introduced SB5 to
remove the sunset provision previously placed on
SB286. The argument between the two warring groups
began anew leading me to despise any legislation
dealing with milk; perhaps it’s a repressed memory
from my childhood. This time I voted “No.”
Now in 2013, I am facing HB574, an “act generally
revising milk control laws to allow the retail sale
of raw milk.” This time, all the commercial dairy
farmers joined forces to battle every hobby farmer
with two acres and a milk cow. The public hearing
for HB574 was a two hour verbal conflict with each
side accusing the other of distorting the absolute
truth about the health benefits and risks of the
opposing product. With limited constitutional issues
and zero Biblical principles to help me, I feel like
I am stuck in the movie “Groundhog Day” only I am
surrounded by milk cows rather than large rodents.
This job is not as glamorous as it appears on
television and I know one side will blast me with
nasty-grams regardless my eventual decision on
HB574. On the bright side, I am termed-out of
Montana’s House, so this should be my last journey
to the milk barn.
|