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Read online content from popular Progressive Cattleman columnists including Paul Marchant (Irons in the fire), Lee Pitts (It's the Pitts), Baxter Black (On the edge of common sense) and Yevet Tenney (Just dropping by), plus comments from Progressive Cattleman editors.

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During my growing up years, I wasn’t particularly fond of certain chores. I was even less fond of piano lessons.

My mom had the misguided notion that I possessed some musical talent that lay hidden somewhere in the recesses of my tone-deaf soul and that I would some day regret my apathy toward developing my talents.

My mother and I had some epic battles as she would, ever so gently, (her recollection) attempt to persuade me to walk to the torture chamber cleverly disguised as the piano teacher’s house (my recollection) to my weekly lesson.

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As much as I can guarantee that we Americans love our hamburgers, I can say with equal certainty that Germans relish their cucumbers.

So it was with some fascination I watched that country – one at the forefront of the organic food revolution – abandon one of its culinary staples during this spring’s deadly outbreak of E. coli.

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I was having a nice chat with a ranch woman in New Mexico. We wound up discussing children.

Then the subject of sons came up. We noted the special relationship between mothers and sons. Cheri, the ranch woman, said that her son had been a dutiful cowboy ranch kid but had other plans for the future.

 

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I have noticed over the years that there are distinct differences between the folks who attend farm sales and those who go to cattle auctions.

For example, at the farm sale farmers kick tires, whereas at a bull sale ranchers get kicked back if they get too close to their work.

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A few years ago, my wife and I traveled overseas. While visiting friends in their home, the conversation turned to our kids. This friend said her son enjoyed studying music, and I said my son had an interest in U.S. history.

“American history,” she snuffed. “You Americans have no history.”

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Each day on the way to work, I drive across a bridge. It’s an impressive structure standing 486 feet high above a scenic canyon gorge with a winding green river.

But what’s most peculiar about this bridge is how, when the season’s right, you’re bound to see people hurl themselves over it.

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