Awarded a world of opportunity through journalism

I’ve always thought journalists have one of the best jobs. (Clarification: I did not say one of the best paying jobs.) We study writing, then spend our careers learning about all sorts of ideas, people, places and happenings through our reporting.

Take, for example, my assignment last Friday. My editors wanted me to cover a bull sale at Culpeper Agricultural Enterprises. A bull sale.
“They’re kidding, right?”

Nope.

I was dreading the event, which started at 2 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. That meant not only did I have to cover it, but I had to come back and write about it before trying to leave town for the weekend. I stalled until the last possible moment, delaying the inevitable.

With five minutes left until 2 p.m., I dragged myself out of the car and walked inside the large, white building on the side of U.S. 29, dodging mud puddles and strange glances from local farmers. As if being a young woman at a bull sale was not enough, I was wearing cute (not work) jeans, a mint-green cardigan over a white tank and my favorite new tan leather flats with oversized gold buckles on top. In short, I looked ridiculous.

The other 150 people in the ring arrived in denim overalls, muddy work boots, hunting coats and ball caps. I got more than a few inquisitive looks as I sat in the back, taking notes. I had no idea what happened at a bull sale, though I could make an educated guess.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” asked an older gentleman, startling me. I didn’t, so he sat.

“You in the cattle business?” he asked, knowing the answer. I told him I was a reporter and was clueless about bull sales. He laughed and offered to explain a few things to me.

As I watched the massive bulls enter the ring, pounding and kicking up the earth like a toro getting ready to charge, my new friend taught me about the in-depth sciences behind bull testing. From ultrasound results to weight ratios, these bulls are scrutinized from birth to give farmers the best possible idea of the offspring they will produce.
“What happens to the bulls that people don’t bid on?” I asked.

“They go back to the owner,” he said, “and sometimes end up in a hamburger.”

The look on my face gave him a chuckle.

“Don’t you go telling me that you’re one of those vegetarians,” he said. I wasn’t.

I think he enjoyed teaching a city girl a few things about the cattle industry, especially about artificial insemination of heifers as opposed to those bred via “natural service.” That’s something I don’t really care to learn more about.

Bull after bull, farmers shouted bids to the incessant auctioneer. At one point I lifted a hand to scratch my head and was terrified I’d accidentally placed a bid. I didn’t exactly have $1,200 to spend on a bull, let alone a place to keep one in my third-story apartment.

I felt pretty out of place among the cattle farmers, trying my best to avoid getting sawdust all over my outfit. But I left knowing a little more about an important industry — and those who rely on it.

I’ve written about the effects of black widow spider bites, the violence in Liberia, the history of improv and now, bull sales. I’m no expert in these subjects by any means, but with every reporting opportunity, I add to the encyclopedia of my experiences.

You might have to force her, but Catherine Amos thrives on stepping out of her comfort zone. You can reach her at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .