From Issue #12, Summer 1992

The Auction

by Pam Pickens (Evans City, PA)

Going, going, gone! The auctioneer's gavel raps sharply and another piece of merchandise is whisked from the magnificent ballroom of the Sheraton Hotel in Warrendale, about 20 miles north of Pittsburgh. Under the glittering lights of the main chandelier, this latest piece of merchandise pauses to flick her tail as her handler hurries her across the stage to make room for the next item for bid.

I lean forward and whisper to Carol, "Did you hear how much that cow went for?"

"Twelve thousand, wasn't it?" she responds.

"Wow!" It's my first cow auction and I can't think of anything else to say. So I lean back in my seat and scan the crowd. Hundreds of people sitting, standing, walking, talking ---some even buying. All eyes gravitate to the stage where some 60 of Pennsylvania's finest Holsteins are on the auction block. These are the cream of the crop, top breeding stock, mothers of future generations.

A quartet of tiara-ed dairy princesses are lined up next to the stage where the telephone bids are coming in. It's entertaining just to watch the guys working the phones, each gesture designed to excite the bidders into going higher and higher. Yellow balloons and banners are strung across the stage. The cows look out at us over yellow ropes and everywhere I look are matching golden ribbons.

Clipped and cleaned and sprinkled with blue dust so they sparkle under the lights, the cows in their black and white tuxedos look right at home in these formal surroundings. Strangely, it's the people who don't seem to fit. The wall facing the stage is being held up by a row of blue-jeaned legs. Down the aisle comes an Amish woman pushing a baby stroller. In front of me sits an aging cowboy with snakeskin boots and a black felt hat encircled with rhinestones. At least I think they're rhinestones.

Later, out in the parking lot, a soft rain muffles the sounds of our footsteps as we pass the cattle trailers. One lone calf sticks her muzzle out between the slats of her trailer and my fingers reach out to touch her nose. Before I can feel the silkiness of her, my hand jerks back as if it's been singed by a hot branding iron. Twelve thousand dollars, I think, and keep walking.