October 8, 1974
Page 34322
THE CUMBERLAND, MAINE, FAIR
Mr. MUSKIE. Mr. President, from time to time our large metropolitan news journals discover some event in my home State of Maine which strikes the editor as sufficiently unusual to merit a page one story.
Last Friday's Wall Street Journal carried such a story about the ox-pull at the Cumberland, Maine, Fair last week.
Those of us from Maine are always pleased to have an opportunity to educate our fellow countrymen. But at the same time, it strikes us as rather curious that a common, everyday occurrence should arouse such interest among the national press. I suppose, however, that city folk will never cease to be impressed with life the way it should be lived.
The ox-pulling contests at our agricultural fairs are undoubtedly as old as the fairs themselves. As one who saw his first ox-pull at a very young age, I cannot help wondering what the fuss is all about.
But for those of my colleagues who may not be familiar with the tradition of ox-pulling, I would like to extend an invitation to visit Maine next year to see for themselves what struck the paper's fancy. I ask unanimous consent that the Wall Street Journal's article be printed in the RECORD.
There being no objection, the article was ordered to be printed in the RECORD, as follows:
[From the Wall Street Journal, Oct. 4, 1974]
IN MAINE, OX PULLING STILL PULLS THEM IN AT THE COUNTY FAIRS – BESIDES THAT, WHEN OXEN ARE WORN OUT YOU CAN EAT BEEF, WHICH ISN'T TRUE OF HORSES
(By Barry Newman)
CUMBERLAND, MAINE.– A crowd of maybe 2,000 is packing the grandstand and piling three-deep against the rail on the open side of the Pulling Arena at the Cumberland County Fair, all waiting for the start of the International Ox Pulling Contest for the International Trophy. It is probably the biggest ox pulling event in the whole country all season. "It's sort of a similar deal to the Olympics," says George Hall, the fair's Superintendent of Oxen.
Sort of. Ox pulling isn't really a big sport any more; hasn't been since the tractor came in. But watching two big brutes that together weigh as much as a full-size car tug at a block of concrete three times as heavy as they are is still plenty exciting for the people who go to dusty little county fairs like this one, in places where being up-to-date might not be as important as it seems to be elsewhere.
A few people may be here from Portland for the contest (which took place a week ago last night, this being a not-so-instant replay). But this is mainly a farm crowd: round ladies in stretch pants munching French fries doused with vinegar; men with creased faces and bad teeth leaning out every so often to spit tobacco juice into the dirt. There are lots of kids, too, and some of them just climbed up on top of the chalk board in the corner. They'll have to get down from there before we can start.
EIGHT TEAMS COMPETE
There seems to be some movement at the far end of the arena. Here come the teamsters and their cattle, and the crowd is on its feet. Eight teams that qualified in last August's trials are competing.
Four are from New England and the other four are from Nova Scotia. That's the way it is every year because other places never enter. Ox pulling just seems to have stuck mostly in the Northeast while about everybody else on the continent switched to horses and motors.
First into the arena are the four Nova Scotians, smiling confidently, holding whips over their heads, leading broad-shouldered critters decorated with clanging cowbells and pompons resting on impassive snouts. Nova Scotians are proud of their oxen; some farmers there still pull stumps and haul logs with them. "They're better than a tractor and as good as a pair of horses in the rough." says Gordon Lohnes, who came down for the contest. "When you get rid of an ox you can make beef; when you get rid of a horse you got to bury it. I guess that's why we hung onto 'em." (Oxen, by the way, are castrated bulls – it makes them less uppity. )
The Nova Scotian teams are bound by brass-studded head yokes that you hardly ever see in the States. The yokes are carefully carved and fitted to the horns so that the oxen can put the full strength of their massive necks into a pull. Master of ceremonies George Edwards is talking into the microphone: "Just lookit the headgear on these cattle, folks. Let's give 'em a good hand for really polishing up these cattle. We're glad you're here, boys."
The cheering swells as the New Englanders move into the arena, marching with white birch goad sticks resting like rifles on their shoulders. Their cattle, in plain hickory bow yokes that are fastened around their necks instead of to their horns, are stripped of finery and ready for a hard pull. These men, like most others in New England who keep oxen, do it more or less because their fathers kept oxen and because they think it's a good idea for their sons to keep oxen. They train them all year and in the summer they travel around to the fairs.
SETTLING A POINT
The New Englanders are convincing that their bow yokes are better for pulling than the Nova Scotia head yokes, and that's really why this contest was started in 1965 – to settle that point once and for all. Every year but one since then the New England teams have gotten slaughtered, and you might think they would be ready to concede by now. But these Yankees are tenacious. "I think we still have a chance," George Hall says. We will soon find out.
The contestants are lined up in the arena and George Hall is holding out his hat to each man who draws for starting position. It looks like John Treadwell is going to pull first. Yes, It's John Treadwell from East Brookfield, Mass., the man wearing the wide brimmed white hat and a white beard that's sticking out about three inches in front of his chin. It'll be a minute before Mr. Treadwell gets hitched up and in the meantime we can run down the rules.
Two strips of whitewashed two-by-fours are running parallel 12 feet apart down the stay between these rails. At one end of the arena is a "stone boat," which is a sledge with 3,600 pounds of concrete blocks on it. The oxen are hitched to the boat and have to drag it three feet along the dirt floor. If they do, the teamster can call for more weight. Then they tow it three more feet, the teamster calls for still more weight, and so on until the boat is too heavy to budge. The team that pulls the most weight three feet without stepping over the rail wins the contest. If a team can't pull the load in three tries, it's out.
The team is ready. Mr. Treadwell slips them some sugar, yells "Hash!" and the boat slips ahead easily. "Now he'll call for a load," George Edwards announces. "Whaddya going to have, John?"
"A thousand pounds," Mr. Treadwell says and a big rumbling tractor piles on three more blocks. "You're on your own, John, George Edwards says, but suddenly the cattle are pulling by themselves. "WORM WORM Noah!" John Treadwell is shouting, but the cattle are over the rail once and heading over on the other side. "Wait! Wait! Waait!" he bellows, but the cattle are over the rail twice and they're out. Mr. Treadwell heads for the barn. "We hope we have some teams from the U.S. that'll give us a little better show," George Edwards says. "And now here's Oran Veinot from Nova Scotia."
AMAZING PERFORMANCE
Mr. Veinot, a man with a greenbilled cap pushed to one side of his grey head, hitches up his cattle and they easily pull the boat three feet. They take on 800 pounds more and do the same. Mr. Veinot isn't making a peep. The load builds: 6,600 pounds, 6,400, 7,200, 8,000 pounds. The cattle just put their heads down and pull. At 8,400 Mr. Veinot begins to encourage them. He tugs down on their horns, whirls his whip over his head and screams: "Comeah! Heah! Heah! Comeaagh!" The load slips ahead. At 8,600 pounds they finally waver. Mr. Veinot shrieks, the head yoke creaks, but the stone boat creeps only 27 inches. The team is out. "Nice job Oran; that's the way to do it," George Edwards says over the loudspeaker.
The crowd is hushed in amazement at Mr. Veinot's display. People down here don't often see cattle trained the way they are in Nova Scotia. "In Nova Scotia you dassen't use the whip," Gordon Lohnes explains. "You got to get them to do what you want just by talking to 'em. They call 'em dumb animals, but they're smarter than we are." The American way is to get the oxen to do what you want by whacking them on the haunches with the goad stick. And at most contests in the States, moreover, the rules are different. The oxen pull for distance with a set load within a time limit and the only place they aren't allowed to go is into the grandstand. This contest is being played with modified Nova Scotian rules, which are a bit more civilized. The Americans know they are at a disadvantage. (It's true, though, that at past matches American rules were used and the Canadians still won.)
Well, anyhow, here comes Dwain Anderson from Webster, N.H., to give it another go. His black and white team takes loads with ease, but at 7,800 pounds the pressure is too much. The oxen are blowing smoke from their nostrils and drooling heavily. A sweat stain is spreading across the back of Dwain Anderson's drab-green shirt as he roars "Heaagh!" and comes down with the goad. But the boat moves only seven inches and the team is finished.
PULLING 4 TONS – AND MORE
The next Nova Scotian is Darrell Watkins, with two fat, speckled oxen. He whoops and hollers a lot and takes the load up to 7,600 pounds. Then all at once he adds on 1,000 pounds and the. team gives out. After Darrell Watkins comes John Mehuren, a strapping poultry farmer from Searsmont, Maine. He works the load up to 8,000 pounds, but with that much weight behind them his cattle bolt forward with all they've got and the boat doesn't move an inch.
And now, at last, we have Nelson Zinck, a Nova Scotian fish cutter and the reigning champion, with his two dark, meanlooking critters, Dynamite and Lightning. Mr. Zinck is smiling pleasantly, hitching his pants up around his rib cage, doffing his old blue sweater. He's walking over to the judge and it looks like he wants another 800 pounds on the boat even before he makes his first pull. "Ladies and gentlemen, this man knows what he's doing," George Edwards tells the crowd.
Mr. Zinck plants his feet firmly in front of his animals, opens his mouth and lets out a long "Eyaaaaaah!" as they draw the boat precisely three feet. Again and again, like clockwork, they take the loads up to 8,000 pounds. "He's calling for 800 more!" George Edwards shouts and the crowd is cheering. Mr. Zinck puts his hand on his chin and studies the situation. He motions to the judge. "Put on two more," he says. That's 9,000 pounds. The fans can't believe it.
Mr. Zinck is walking very slowly toward the front of his cattle. Suddenly he whirls, grabs their horns, pulls down hard and bellows as the team crouches and pulls as one, and the boat bolts ahead. It's done.
Even Nelson Zinck's team can't handle 9,200 pounds. They drag the loads 34 inches. But it doesn't look like anybody is going to beat 9,000 pounds and the fans are starting to filter out, heading over to the Exhibition Hall to check out the purple hoghorn potatoes and the rhubarb jam. Ernest Littlefield from Morrill, Maine, is in the arena now, looking helplessly at his oxen's splayed legs as they jerk at 6,600 pounds and can't move it. The last man is Gerald Woodworth from Nova Scotia whose team stops cold at 8,000 pounds. "Oh shoot," says somebody in the crowd. Nelson Zinck is the winner.
Everybody is leaving now, trying to make it over to the midway in time to take in Zelda the Skeleton girl. In the arena, Nelson Zinck is being awarded a big silver cup and a first-prize ribbon as the flashbulbs pop.
"They putcha on a real show," George Edwards is saying over the speakers. "It looks like we got to do a little more practice if we're going to get ahead of them boys. But you got to give us credit; we're still working at it. We never give up here in the States. Now here's a list of license numbers that must be moved or they will be towed away..."