Emergence - Barry Rachin (motivational novels for students .txt) 📗

it’s on the small side – a tad under eight hundred pounds – and, even taking butter, cheeses, cream and yoghurt into account, what’s a family gonna do with more than thirty pounds of high-fat milk each week?”
Nadia sat for a full minute staring blankly toward the stacks at the far end of the room. Her pudgy hands were folded on the top of the reference desk in a prayerful attitude, as she recalled a peculiar incident from earlier in the week. Wednesday evening after bathing and combing out her hair, she decided to check her email on the internet. When the darkened computer screen came to life, she was staring at a website from Holly Lake Ranch in Hawkins Texas, featuring old-fashion, wooden butter churns. The tapered buckets were held tight by metal bands with the slender pole attached to the butter paddle sticking straight up from a hole in the center of the lid. Navigating out of the website so she could retrieve her mail, Nadia thought nothing of the queer incident. “Could I see this animal … this eight hundred pound Jersey cow?”
“Now?”
“Yes, right now.”
Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck with a broad, callused hand. “Well, I don’t see why not. The farm’s only twenty minutes away. We could shoot over there in my truck and be back in no time.”
Rising from her chair, Nadia followed him downstairs. At the front desk she cornered an elderly woman processing a pile of books in circulation. “There’s been a family emergency. Tell Liam I had to leave on short notice, but will be back in an hour or so.”
On the ride over to the dairy farm, Nadia noted, “What you told me was true.”
“Which was?”
“That chickens develop their own pecking order.”
Jonathan slowed for a family waiting at a crosswalk. “Always do.”
“Does their social system ever break down?”
Jonathan thought a moment. “Poultry can’t manage in flocks of more than twenty.”
“And why is that?”
They were already away from the congestion of the inner city on a two-lane road headed east with corn and vegetables planted in tidy rows on either side of the highway. “Chickens are social, class-conscious animals. Once every resident knows their place in the coop, the pecking order works fine but only up to a certain, fixed point. Add even one or two more birds to the mix, however, and their dim-witted, poor little brains can’t keep track of who belongs where in the fixed scheme of things. The result is pandemonium and a coop full of stressed-out, neurotic birds.” Directly up ahead the dairy farm with a series of barns and fenced off fields came into sight. Jonathan turned off the road onto a narrow muddy path and slowed the truck to a crawl as they negotiated the rutted driveway. “Twenty birds,” he repeated, “that’s the outer limit before the proverbial bird poop hits the fan.”
The cow in question, a tan Jersey with graceful legs and creamy white markings around her eyes and muzzle, was located in a field two hundred feet away from where they parked the truck. “It always pays to examine new cows firsthand to get a feel for the beasts’ qualities,” Jonathan noted. “I came by Tuesday and observed her during milking.”
“And what did you discover?”
“She’s a real classy lady. Calm, mellow… didn’t hardly give the dairy workers any grief.” “You could go with a Dutch Belted, Ayrshire, Guernsey or Dexter, but, to my mind, that Jersey’s a sensible choice.”
Jonathan gestured with a flick of his head at a grouping of much larger cows with patchwork black and white markings. “Take those Holsteins for example. They go upwards of twelve hundred pounds, consume a heck of a lot more fodder and the milk isn’t nearly as rich.” He stared thoughtfully at the cattle. “Now that chubby lady over by the rotted stump is carrying.”
An acrid smell, wet clay mixed with the sweeter more pungent odor of fresh dung suffused the air. “Carrying what?”
“She’s pregnant… probably four, five months gone.” He cracked a mischievous grin. “A two-for-one special.” Jonathan shifted thirty feet along the fence still eyeing the pregnant cow. “Do you notice how that bovine holds her head cocked slightly to the side?”
Nadia studied the pregnant cow, which was chewing her cud and staring absentmindedly in their general direction. “The back of a cow should be straight, with prominent hipbones; the neck and head ought to move freely without any stiffness. A cow that stands with her head always tilted to the side may have some visual or inner ear problems.” Jonathan picked up a small branch and hurled it to the right of where the cow was standing. Startled, the animal lumbered awkwardly several paces further away, then turned and stared dully at the humans one last time before wandering off. Again, the cow’s head was decidedly off center.
“Now that one over by the watering trough – you probably didn’t notice – is missing a teat, but that don’t matter just so long as she’s got three working teats and there’s no mastitis or udder, infectious diseases.” He quickly turned to Nadia, grinned foolishly and tapped her on the forearm “You get it? Udder... other diseases – it’s a farmer’s joke.” Jonathan began chuckling at his own cleverness.
The subject matter, which had taken an unexpected turn, left Nadia queasy, light-headed. One of the cows bellowed, a deep throaty bass sound that seemed to rile the other animals who joined in the improvised, atonal chorus. “You don’t want a cow with a nasty disposition, overly aggressive or intimidating. The opposite can be just as bad. If Bessie frightens easily, is shy or nervous, that could be a problem.”
“But you said that the Jersey was calm during milking,” Nadia replied.
“Yes, the cow that’s for sale seems quite docile.”

• * * * *

Returning home, Nadia found her father out on the back porch watching the chickens. The Rhode Island Red, who was pecking at a clump of dandelions, suddenly flew into a tizzy and, clucking like a banshee, chased her rock hen nemesis, to the opposite end of the yard. “How much time before the sun goes down?”
“Another hour and a half, maybe two.” Mr. Rasmussen replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if you would you like to take a drive …go meet the latest edition to the family?” On the ride over to the dairy farm Nadia asked, “Buying a cow – is that another example of emergence theory?”
Mr. Rasmussen shook his head in the negative. “No, it’s just animal husbandry.”


June 29th
The Tarahumara consume huge amounts of an alcoholic beverage, tesguino, which is made from fermented corn. The Indians consider being intoxicated a matter of pride and are not ashamed to become drunk. Properly understood, it is an inextricable part of their tribal culture
These communal drinking festivals are important because they allow the Tarahumara to vent violent and aggressive emotions, something that would not be acceptable in ordinary, everyday life. It is said that ninety percent of all social infractions – fighting, adultery and occasionally murder - occur at the ‘tesguinado’. What is amazing, from our skewed, European point of view, is that a person who commits one of these crimes is unlikely to be punished or suffer any serious repercussions. The Tarahumara simply blame anything that happens during the tesguinado on the alcohol.
The roots of the Tarahumara beliefs and religion are very puzzling. In the middle 1600’s Franciscan missionaries arrived in the Copper Canyon and tried to instill Christianity as the Indian’s religion. The Tarahumara never fully accepted Christianity. They believed that their own views on religion were too important to just forget, and so, over time, the Tarahumara have assimilated bits and pieces of both religions. It is now impossible for people to find the roots of current Tarahumara beliefs. Their most important belief that has remained unchanged over the years is that God is the sun, his wife is the moon, and the Devil is the father of all non-Indians. This belief is an example of the Tarahumara extreme ethnocentrism; they believe that they are a superior race and that they are more important than other people.
The Tarahumara are not very hygienic. The washing of their clothes is usually either an annual or semiannual tradition. The Indians have no regular sleeping habits and simply go to sleep whenever and wherever they are tired and feel that they need rest. The practice of childbirth is also distinct to the Tarahumara. When a woman feels that it is about time for her to deliver the baby, she will go off by herself into the wilderness, brace herself between two small trees and attempt to have the baby safely. Infant mortality is very high. This fact is counterbalanced by the fact that the average Tarahumara woman gives birth to about ten babies hoping that three or four will survive. Adulthood is usually short for the Indians with the average life expectancy being forty-five.

Nadia, who was lying on the living room couch, flipped the page but discovered no more entries. It was the end of the journal but certainly not the final chapter in the saga of the Tarahumara. In an illustrated book, Indians of the Southwest, located in the history section of the library, she learned that the Mexican government had run train tracks through the isolated Copper Canyon opening the region up to tourists. A medical clinic, the first of its kind in the isolated area, had reduced infant mortality among the Indians by half, but the increased numbers inhabiting the region had put a strain on natural resources. There simply wasn’t enough open space and farmable land left to sustain the Indians’ traditional lifestyle.

• * * * *


In late October, two months after the Jersey arrived at the Rasmussen’s, Nadia stopped by the Rehoboth Feed and Grange. “I’m on my way to Logan Airport and was wondering if you would like to come along for the drive.”
“Going away?” Jonathan asked.
Nadia shook her head. “It’s a bit complicated,” she hedged, “but I can explain everything on the Southeast Expressway. When do you get off work?”
Three hours later as they were cruising north on route three into Boston, Nadia told Jonathan about the ornate, leather-bound journal. “Now that I’ve finished reading it, I’m leaving the diary at the airport for someone else to find.”
Directly ahead and slightly to the left, the Prudential Building loomed high above office buildings dotting the metropolitan skyline. Chinatown came into view and just as quickly disappeared as the car entered a tunnel under the city outskirts. “Sure wish you’d told me this earlier,” Jonathan muttered.
“And why’s that?”
“I'd sure like to read the journal.”
“Then we made the trip for nothing.”
Jonathan thought a moment. Up ahead a sliver of light indicated that they were exiting the tunnel heading in the direction of Faneuil Market and the Boston Aquarium. He pressed down on the directional, easing over into the far right-hand lane. “So the drive won’t be a complete loss, why don’t we double back to Chinatown and grab something to eat?”
Nadia rested a hand on Jonathan’s forearm. “That sure is sweet of you.” They were already winding through narrow, congested streets lined with oriental restaurants and exotic shops. Many of the signs on storefronts were lettered in Chinese characters. A young Asian woman with jet black hair fluttering about her waist hurried by. The woman wore a skintight dress fashioned from two-tone silk brocade with a Mandarin collar. The car inched up to a red light. “My father teaches physics at the community college.”
“Which makes him both a dairy farmer and a man of science,” Jonathan