Evolution. Bleh. Things evolve whether we want them to or not. Today will be the last sale at “the yard.” The closing of Shasta Livestock Auction Yard is a big deal Cottonwoodians.
My parents moved us here when I was 5. Essentially my whole life that smelly place has been a part of what I call home.
If you’ve not smelled my town, you may have the COVID. It’s pungent, especially going in to Fridays when the sale happens. A few years back a casino put an I5 billboard up near it that said, “Smells like money.” The distinct smell means that cattlemen were getting paid and steaks would be able to show up in your local grocery. It’s weird to say that the smell that may turn stomachs is the same that comforts others because its symbolic of a culture.
The restaurant there will also close. My parents moved from LA-ish to Cottonwood. I think they rather enjoyed taking their LA family and friends to the Branding Iron restaurant to highlight just how country they’d become. If the aroma that lingers outside the restaurant wasn’t enough proof, my mom would point out the dead flies in the window sills. Large mammals means flies. Lots of them. The restaurant food was amazing though. The pies in that place may single-handedly be responsible for diabetic conditions of two generations. The only things stronger than the coffee there were the values and waitresses.
The regulars are a living history of the town I love. They know everyone, which means whenever someone enters the dining area, there can be one of those movie like moments when all noises instantly hush as cowboy hats tilt to see who has entered. Don’t let the weathered faces and predator eyes fool you. They aren’t judging, they’re just expecting that whoever’s walking in is someone they know. However, show up in your best “Vegans Rule” or “Gun Control is Awesome” shirt and they may not have a lot of need to get to know you.
Going to the restaurant as a kid was an exciting adventure. While your parents waited for food or visited after eating, you could roam the halls at the Yard. The walls are lined with black and white 8×10 photos of cattlemen from as early back as the 30’s to modernish times. There were great names to look at, mustaches to appreciate, changing cowboy attire trends to track. Family names were familiar. It’s a veritable who’s who of Cottonwood life. As a kid, you were also obligated by kid law to sit in the vintage phone booths. If those booths could talk they’d be a testament to the ebbs and flows of cow business life. I’m sure there were excited calls made from those booths about fortunes made, and other calls to the bank begging for just a little more time.
When growing up happened (meh!), the hall walls still held the attention of many. They were like vision boards (or whatever those things are called). “Man, I could really make a go of it if I just had a couple million dollars to buy that ranch.” Haven’t landed the couple million yet, but I have been lucky enough to calves I know chilling in the pens waiting for the Friday sale.
The Yard is a central hub for all things Cottonwood/cow. Countless young’ns have spent time there working, cleaning with their FFA club, or meeting there on Sundays to weigh their steers. It’s been there long enough that Yard fashion has cycled back around. I distinctly remember the trucker hats of the 70’s with that sway-back intentionally pathetic-looking cow on them. The new youth has brought those hats back with a vengeance. If you have one, get it hermetically sealed and wait sell it for some serious coin in couple years.
It’s been such a part of so many lives for so long. It will be sad to see it go. I asked young Dirty what he thinks about it closing. Without zero intentional irony he said, “It’s bullshit.”
Things change. We don’t have to like it, but we will have to accept it. The memories of it being a place of honor, virtue, and ethics will live on. In its closing, there’s still lessons to be learned. Cow people, yard owning people, regular people; can all have those times when even though they’ve done everything according to plan, the fickle finger of fate will fuck with them. We can just revel that we had it at all instead of regretting that it’s gone. Goodbye to a stinky place that symbolized hard work and dreams, and thanks for all the great things.
Thanks for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 