The Brothers Arnold

Unlike other traits, fence swooping is hereditary.

Somehow the Brothers Arnold, two poultry farmers in the upper end of Cleveland County, seemed impervious from the slipstream emanating from the fan--a large industrial fan at the end of a long poultry house.

“You get used to it,” Dennis chuckled, as his brother Steve nodded solemnly in agreement.

I hid a polite smile behind my fist as I coughed. So far, I have never gotten used to standing that close to a poultry house’s fan.

In addition to their six poultry houses, they had nearly a hundred momma cows in the acreage surrounding the poultry houses on the hill. I was there to sign the brothers up for a cost-share program that helps pay for a well and watering tanks for their pastures. From what I could gather, it was Steve who had sketched out the plan for the watering tanks, but it was Dennis who was doing the communicating, waving Steve’s hand drawn map.

“Why don’t we walk through the pastures and take a look,” I said. The farm was bucolic in a visual sense, with a thick stand of fescue covering terraced hills and a willow-lined farm pond. “Beautiful place, you got here.”

“Yeah, we think so…” said Dennis. “Poultry farming ain’t a glamorous way to make a living, but it provides a steady paycheck. You can’t depend on the cattle market. In a year like this, a man can do alright on cows, but the bottom will drop out eventually.”

As part of the cost-share agreement, we required the brothers to fence the cows out of the pond, which, judging by the rutted cow trails leading down the bank, was currently their preferred spot for drinking, bathing, and general relaxation.

“How’s the fishing?” I asked.

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Dennis, “I can’t remember the last time I had a chance to get down here with a fishing pole.” Steve commiserated with a nod. We then looked back uphill toward the poultry houses.

“Why don’t we cut through the fence there,” said Dennis, suggesting a shortcut. He was already huffing and puffing from the trek downhill.

Instead of walking all the way around through the system of gates, we headed toward an interior three strand electric fence splitting the pasture. With a much slimmer frame, Steve went first, throwing one leg over the middle wire and ducking under the top wire, all in one swooping motion. He then reached in his pocket and pulled out a black plastic comb which he used to pull down the middle wire to give his bigger brother more clearance.

For a big man, Dennis swooped gracefully enough, as Steve continued to hold the wire down for me. I have never been much of a graceful fence swooper, and even with the extra clearance afforded by Steve, I somehow managed to graze my back on the top wire.

“You alright?” Dennis asked, after I recoiled down to the ground from the shock.

“Good gosh! How many volts you got running to that fence?” I asked.

“Enough to keep a two thousand pound bull away from a cow in heat,” Dennis chuckled. Steve nodded solemnly.