Creeping over fields of green Remembering the
faces The moments unseen The hands that built
a dynasty The vision in their eyes Echoes in
the auction bar Beneath an endless sky This is
the bull buy Turn the bar Welcome to the Bullvine
Podcast, where we dig deep into the stories that
shaped the dairy industry you work in today.
I'm your host, and today we're taking you back
to 1973, to a Pennsylvania barn where one farmer's
decision would affect millions of cows you've
never seen, in countries you've never visited,
for generations that haven't even been born yet.
This is the story of Charlie Plushansky and a
cow named Faith. It's about the day he said no
to more money than most farms were worth. It's
about genetics that still flow through your herd
today. Adding $1 ,500 per cow in value you might
not even know exists. For the next hour and a
half, you're not just listening to history. You're
living it. You'll stand in that barn. Feel the
weight of impossible decisions. Experience what
it means to choose legacy over profit. Whether
you're milking 50 cows or 5 ,000, whether you're
in Wisconsin or Western Australia, this story
matters to you. Because the genetics Charlie
protected in 1973 might be the reason your best
cows are still milking strong in their fifth
lactation instead of breaking down in their third.
So settle in. This is the Bullvine Podcast. And
this is the know that built a dynasty. You stand
in your barn on a crisp morning in 1973. The
familiar smell of hay and silage fills your lungs
as you run your hand along the flank of a five
-year -old Holstein cow. She's not just any cow.
She's the kind that makes other dairymen stop
and stare when they visit. The kind your father
would have called once in a lifetime. You're
Charlie Plushansky, and in about 30 minutes,
you're going to make a decision that will affect
dairy farms you'll never see, in countries you'll
never visit, For generations, you'll never meet.
You hear vehicles approaching your Kutztown,
Pennsylvania farmyard. The Holstein industry
is booming, and word is spread about your cow.
Buyers have been calling, visiting, making offers.
Earlier this year, when Pete Heffering was preparing
to move his operation from New York to Port Perry,
Ontario, he'd inquired about purchasing cattle
from top breeders. Now others are following suit.
looking for the genetics that will define the
next generation. Your cow. Plushansky Chief Faith.
The offers being discussed could solve every
financial problem you've ever had. We're talking
about money that could buy another farm outright,
set your family up for years. You think about
the mortgage payment due next month, the new
milking equipment you've been putting off. Your
son carries future. He's graduating from Cutstown
Area High School this year. You watch Faith shift
her weight in the stall, her massive udder swaying
slightly, those genetics worth their weight in
gold to the right buyer. You know what everyone
expects you to do. Hell, you know what you'd
tell another farmer to do. The buyers arrive,
their city shoes clicking on the concrete. You
can see it in their eyes. They're prepared to
pay whatever it takes. The Holstein market is
exploding. The 1972 Hanover Hill dispersal just
set records. Money is flowing into registered
cattle like never before. But here's what nobody
else knows yet. Not the buyers. Not even your
wife waiting anxiously in the kitchen. You've
already made your decision. And 50 years from
now, that decision will still be adding $1 ,500
to the bottom line of dairy operations from Wisconsin
to Western Australia. You're about to say no.
You need to understand what the dairy industry
looked like when all this began. Picture yourself
in 1945, standing on any dairy farm in America.
The war has just ended. You've got maybe 30 cows
if you're doing well, each producing about 5
,000 pounds of milk a year, less than a quarter
of what cows produce today. You milk them by
hand or with primitive surge milkers. No pipelines,
no parlors, no computers telling you optimal
feed ratios. You keep your records in a notebook,
bloodlines tracked on index cards your wife helps
maintain. Breeding decisions? You make them based
on what you can see. A straight back, a well
-attached udder, good feet and legs. There's
no genomics, no expected progeny differences,
no total performance index. You breed to the
bull down the road or pay for semen from one
of the few AI companies just getting started.
The entire Holstein industry is about to explode.
but you don't know that yet. You're just trying
to survive in a world where milk brings $3 .50
per hundred weight and feed costs eat up most
of your profit. The average farm has eight cows.
Eight. You laugh about it now, thinking about
operations today, milking thousands. You flip
through the Holstein Friesian World magazine,
one of the only connections to the broader breeding
community. The ads showcase bulls with names
like sovereign, emperor, king, royalty in black
and white, But two bulls are about to change
everything, and the industry is choosing sides.
Pawnee Farm Arlinda Chief, born in 1962 at Pawnee
Farm in Illinois. You study his daughter's production
records, and your pulse quickens. These aren't
just good cows. They're rewriting what's possible.
Milk production jumping 20, 30, sometimes 40
% over their dams. The will to milk. Breeders
are calling it. Chief daughters just want to
produce. Feed efficiency be damned. But you also
hear the whispers at the county fair, the concerns
shared over coffee at the feed store. Chief daughters
don't always last. Some break down after two
lactations. The udders don't always hold up.
And there are the stillbirths, though nobody's
connected the dots yet on that genetic time bomb
that UC Davis will later discover, a lethal mutation
that will cause over 500 ,000 stillbirths worldwide.
Then there's Round Oak Rag Apple Elevation, the
bull from Virginia that's creating a different
kind of revolution. His daughters might not milk
quite as hard as Chief's, but they last. They
classify well, score excellent, keep producing
through four, five, six lactations. In an industry
where every cow is a massive investment, longevity
matters. You're watching an industry divide itself
into camps. The commercial dairymen chasing Chief's
production. the show breeders following Elevation's
type. It's like watching your neighbors choose
between Ford and Chevy, except these decisions
will echo through decades of genetics. By the
early 1960s, you can feel the change in the air.
Herds are getting bigger. The guys who used to
milk 20 cows by hand now have pipelines and bulk
tanks. The surge milker salesman who used to
come by quarterly now talks about herringbone
parlors that can milk 40 cows an hour. You read
in Horde's Dairyman about farms in California
milking 500 cows. 500. It seems impossible, but
the economics are shifting. Milk prices aren't
keeping up with costs. You either grow or you
die. The phrase, get big or get out, starts appearing
in every farm magazine. This is the world Charlie
Plushansky inhabits in 1965 when he makes a decision
that seems crazy. While everyone else is picking
sides, chief or elevation, Charlie's about to
try something different. He's going to combine
genetics in a way that could either create greatness
or complete disaster. You're Charlie Plushansky,
and you're building something from nothing in
Berks County, Pennsylvania. The year is 1945,
and you've just returned from World War II, where
you served as a Marine. The stories that circulate
about you include tales of boxing matches, using
your fists to earn money for this dream of farming.
You walk the property line, 120 acres of decent
ground, with a barn that needs work and a house
that needs more. Your hands are rough from the
war, from work, from fighting for everything
you have. You've seen things in the Pacific that
you'll never talk about, not even to your wife
Clara decades later. But standing here, smelling
the earth after a morning rain, you feel something
you haven't felt since before Pearl Harbor. Hope.
Your father thinks you're crazy. a marine becoming
a farmer, but you've always been able to see
angles others miss. You could spot weakness,
exploit opportunity, see the path to victory
when others saw defeat. Now you're looking at
dairy cows the same way. You start with six cows
bought at the Lebanon County sale. Nothing special,
grades and a couple registered Holsteins that
classify good plus at best. You milk them by
hand morning and evening, your hands surprisingly
gentle. You've got a theory that cows respond
to routine, to calmness, to the same steady presence
every day. You're right, though it'll be decades
before studies prove it. By 1960, you've built
the herd to 40 head. You've married Clara, who
keeps your books and asks questions about breeding
that make you think harder. Your children are
growing, including Carrie. born in 1955, who
follows you around the barn with the serious
expression of a child who knows he's witnessing
something important. You study bloodlines the
way you once studied opponents. Spread across
your kitchen table are registration papers, production
records, classification scores. Clara makes coffee
while you trace pedigrees back four, five generations,
looking for patterns. You're not formally educated
in genetics, but you understand breeding intuitively.
The breakthrough comes when your brother Henry,
who works for Sire Power, calls about some heifers
for sale down in Perry County. It's October 1965,
and you're standing in Alan Yoder's barn looking
at 12 Whirlhill Kingpin daughters. Every other
buyer has passed on them. Kingpin daughters milk
well, but they're udders. You can see the problem.
They're deep, sometimes too deep, attachments
that won't last. But you see something else.
You see frames that can carry production, width
through the chest, that dairy strength your father
taught you to recognize. And you think about
Chief, about those production genetics everyone's
chasing. What if you could combine Chief's will
to milk with these frames? What if the utter
problems are correctable with the right mating?
You buy all 12 heifers. The ride home, your truck
loaded with yearlings, you're already planning
the matings in your head. Clara meets you at
the barn. takes one look at the heifers, and
raises an eyebrow. You explain your theory, corrective
mating, using chief to fix what kingpin lacks.
One heifer stands out, born September 1964, a
full year before you bought her. 80 Whirlhill
Frona. She's not the prettiest, won't win any
shows, but when you run your hand along her spine,
feel the width of her chest, watch how she moves,
you know. This is the one. Spring 1967. Frona's
ready to breed. You've gone back and forth on
the decision a hundred times. Chief seaman isn't
cheap dollars. 25 a straw when you're lucky to
clear $100 a month after expenses. Your neighbors
think you're wasting money. Why breed a kingpin
daughter to chief? Why not use a cheaper bull?
See what happens. But you've learned something
from your time in the Marines, from battles both
literal and figurative. Sometimes you have to
risk it all on the decision that matters. You
call the AI technician. You breed Frona to chief.
November 1968. You're in the barn, at 3 a .m.,
the way you always are when a cow's close to
calving. Frona's been in labor for two hours.
You've got your calving chains ready, but she
doesn't need help. The calf slides out, perfect
presentation, and even in the dim barn light,
you can see she's special. The calf struggles
to her feet, already showing that vigor chief
daughters are known for. But it's her composition
that stops you cold. The perfect blend of her
parents' traits, Chief's dairy strength with
a refinement, a balance you rarely see. You towel
her off, make sure she nurses, but you already
know. You've just bred Plushansky, Chief Faith.
Or on a humid morning in June 1970, watching
Faith come into her second lactation. She's already
exceeded every expectation from her first. The
DHIA tester shakes his head as he records her
numbers. 92 pounds of milk yesterday. 92 pounds
from a second calf heifer when your mature cows
average 60. But it's not just the production.
You watch her move through the parlor. Notice
how her udder has improved since her first lactation.
Higher, tighter, with that perfect four udder
attachment. Most chief daughters are breaking
down by now. Faith's getting better. The feed
bill comes, and you wince. With production like
Faith's, you're feeding more grain. buying better
quality hay. Clara looks at the numbers over
breakfast, her pencil scratching calculations
on the back of an envelope. At current milk prices,
Faith's earning her keep and then some, but margins
are tight. One sick month, one drop in production,
and she becomes a liability. Your neighbors start
noticing. At the county fair, men you've known
for 20 years suddenly want to talk bloodlines.
They've heard about your Chief Kingpin Cross.
want to know if you have any daughters for sale.
You don't, not yet, but you're thinking ahead.
Faith breeds again, and you make a decision that
surprises even you. Instead of breeding her back
to chief, doubling down on those genetics, you
use other bulls, diversifying the genetics. You're
building a family, not just a cow. Spring 1971.
Faith calves again, this time with a heifer you
name Plushansky Valiant Fran. Even as a wet calf,
you can see she's different from Faith. Where
Faith is all about production and function, Fran
has something else, presence, style, what the
show people call bloom. You're learning something
crucial. Faith doesn't just produce, she transmits.
Her daughters are better than they should be,
consistently exceeding genetic predictions. It's
what breeders dream about but rarely find, a
cow that improves everything she touches. The
phone starts ringing. First, it's locals, guys
from Lancaster and Lebanon counties who've heard
about Faith's production records. Then the calls
get longer distance. A breeder from Ohio wants
to know if you'll sell a pregnancy. Someone from
Wisconsin offers to buy Fran as a calf. You say
no to all of them. Clara questions this over
dinner. Practical, as always. The money would
help. You need a new bulk tank. The tractor needs
an overhaul. Carrie's talking about college.
He'll graduate high school in 1973. But you've
got a feeling about Faith, about what she could
become. You tell Clara you're building something,
though you can't quite articulate what. Fall
1972. The Holstein world is experiencing unprecedented
change. Pete Heffering is planning to move his
Hanover Hill operation from New York to Canada.
His Amenia farm lease expires January 1, 1973,
and he's already purchased property in Port Perry,
Ontario. The upcoming Hanover Hill dispersal
is all anyone talks about. It'll be one of the
biggest sales in Holstein history. This creates
opportunity and pressure. With major herds dispersing
and reforming, genetics are being redistributed
across North America. Everyone's looking for
the next great cow, the next foundation female.
and word about Faith has spread through the breeding
community like wildfire. You receive inquiries
from prominent breeders, each wanting to know
if Faith or her daughters are for sale. The offers
are substantial, more money than your farm has
grossed in years. You ask for time to think about
it. After they leave, you stand in Faith's stall
for a long time. You think about the bills piling
up, about Clara's worried looks when she balances
the checkbook, about carrie's future that night
you and clara sit at the kitchen table until
past midnight she spread out all the financial
records what you owe what's coming due what faith
and her daughters could bring the math is simple
selling would solve everything but you keep coming
back to faith's daughters franz already classified
very good as a two -year -old the math something
almost unheard of job fancy's production numbers
as a first calf heifer match her dams Neil Flute
and Mark Fife show promise you can feel in your
bones. Clara finally asks the question that matters.
Not what's smart, not what's safe, but what does
your gut tell you? You look at the numbers one
more time, then push the papers aside. Your gut
tells you faith is the foundation of something
bigger than money. You're keeping her. While
you're making decisions in your Pennsylvania
barn, the Holstein world is experiencing a transformation
unlike anything in its history. You read about
it in the farm magazines, hear about it at every
sale and show. Money is pouring into registered
cattle like never before. You're sitting in the
Kutztown Diner reading the latest sale report
in the Holstein world. The 1972 Hanover Hill
dispersal has just concluded. Pete Heffring's
heard from New York, selling before his move
to Canada. Cows are bringing $50 ,000, $75 ,000,
even $122 ,000 for top individuals. These aren't
just cattle prices. They're investment vehicle
prices. Tax laws have changed, making cattle
attractive investments for doctors, lawyers,
business owners looking for write -offs. Syndication
is the new word everyone's throwing around, splitting
ownership of elite cattle into shares, like a
corporation. You hear about cows with more owners
than your local bank has shareholders. At the
World Dairy Expo in 1972, you walk through the
sale pavilion, watching city people bid against
each other for show heifers. The auctioneer's
chant reaches numbers that make traditional dairymen
shake their heads. These aren't even proven cows.
They're buying potential, dreams, tax shelters
dressed in black and white. The market's going
international, too. You hear about Japanese buyers
paying record prices for embryos, European syndicates
shopping for new bloodlines, Canadians like Heffering
building super herds with unlimited budgets.
The local nature of dairy farming, where you
knew every cow in the county, is disappearing.
But you also see the dark side. Herds built on
speculation rather than function. Cows valued
for their paper rather than their production.
At the feed store, Old -timers grumble about
breeders who don't even milk their cows anymore,
just flush embryos and cash checks. You think
about all this as you do your evening milking.
Faith's averaging 120 pounds a day now in her
peak, but she's more than numbers. She's proven.
Her daughters are proven. In a market drunk on
speculation, you're sitting on actual, documented
genetic gold. The calls keep coming. Major breeding
operations, syndicates, investors. all wanting
a piece of what you've built. Each offer seems
bigger than the last. Each time you say no, you
wonder if you're being stubborn or smart. The
bills don't stop. The milk check doesn't get
bigger. But every time you watch Faith's daughters,
now starting to have daughters of their own,
you see generations of genetics unfolding. It's
in this context that 1973 arrives. The year that
will define everything. Inflation is eating into
farm profits. Feed costs have jumped 40%. The
Arab oil embargo will soon triple fuel costs.
Many of your neighbors are selling out, their
farms becoming developments for people commuting
to Philadelphia. You're not immune to these pressures.
The mortgage payment gets harder each month.
The equipment dealer wants cash up front now.
No more credit. Clara doesn't say anything, but
you see her adding columns of numbers late at
night, trying to make them balance. And Faith?
She's five years old in her prime, classified
EX94, one of only a handful of cows in Pennsylvania
to score that high. Her daughters are making
names for themselves. Fran's headed to her first
show. Job Fancy's production records are turning
heads. This is when the breeding world comes
calling one more time. You're in the barn on
a morning in early 1973 when the weight of everything
crashes down. Carrie's been accepted to Penn
State. Your son graduating from Kutztown Area
High School this year, has a bright future ahead.
But the tuition? It might as well be a million
dollars for all the chance you have of paying
it. The offers for faith have become almost daily
occurrences. The Holstein market is at a fever
pitch. With Heffering's successful move to Canada
and his new facility at Port Perry Operational,
with major sales setting records every month,
everyone wants proven genetics. You've been offered
substantial money, enough to pay off the farm,
send Carrie to college, modernize your entire
operation. The kind of money that would let you
sleep at night without worrying about the next
mortgage payment. You walk through your barn,
stopping at each of Faith's daughters. Valiant
Fran, showing the elegance that could make her
a champion. Job Fancy, whose production records
are exceptional. Neil Flute and Mark Fife, younger
but equally promising. The math is simple. Faith's
in her prime. Her value will never be higher.
The market might never be this hot again. Every
logical bone in your body says sell. But you
keep coming back to something deeper. This isn't
just about money. It's about what you're building.
What you're proving. That a small farmer with
good instincts can create something lasting.
That patience and vision matter more than deep
pockets. The calls intensify. Offers that would
make your neighbor's jaws drop. Partnerships,
syndications, every creative financing structure
imaginable, each one more tempting than the last.
Clara finds you in the barn one evening, sitting
on a hay bale, head in your hands. She doesn't
say anything, just sits beside you. Finally,
she speaks. She tells you about her mother's
house in town, inherited last year. It's worth
maybe $8 ,000. Enough to buy time with the bank,
keep things going. She's offering to sell her
inheritance to keep faith. Carrie comes into
the barn. Your son, 17 years old, tall and serious.
He says he's been thinking about college, about
the expense. He says he could go to community
college first, save money, transfer later. He's
choosing the farm over his immediate dreams.
You stand there, your family around you, everyone
willing to sacrifice for something they believe
in. For faith. For the future you're building
together. You make the decision. Faith stays.
No amount of money will change that. The word
spreads quickly through the Holstein community.
Charlie Plushansky turned down a fortune. Some
think you're crazy. Others admire your conviction.
But everyone's watching to see if you've made
the right choice. September 1973. You're at the
Pennsylvania All -American show when Valiant
Fran enters the ring. You watch her move, that
faith power combined with elegance. When they
name her junior champion, you feel something
shift. This is vindication. This is proof. The
offers for Fran come immediately. $10 ,000 on
the spot. You decline, politely but firmly. You're
not just keeping cows, you're keeping a legacy.
The years that follow prove your decision right
in ways you never imagined. Faith continues producing,
eventually reaching 242 ,863 pounds of milk lifetime.
She earns that EX94 4E GMD designation. Gold
Medal Dam, one of the highest honors in Holstein
breeding. Her daughters become the foundation
of breeding programs worldwide. Valiant Fran
achieves EX90 with 35 superior offspring, the
star designation almost unheard of before embryo
transfer. Job Fancy becomes a Gold Medal Dam
herself. The younger daughters, Neil Flute and
Mark Fife, establish their own dynasties. By
the 1980s, faith genetics are spreading globally.
Dutch breeders develop the Jovina line from JobFancy,
creating cows that dominate European rankings
for decades. Canadian breeders work with the
Frantisco line from Valiant Fran. Quality BC
Frantisco will become Grand Champion at the Royal
Winter Fair in 2004 and 2005. In Australia, breeders
like Ray Kitchen at Corenda Holsteins build on
faith genetics. Corenda Pemberton, a faith descendant,
will have 606 daughters and 79 herds. You think
often about that decision in 1973. What if you'd
taken the money? Faith would have been just another
good cow in someone else's herd. Her genetics
diluted, controlled by others, maybe lost entirely.
Instead, by saying no, you created something
that transcends money, a genetic legacy that
improves with each generation, a bloodline that
adds value to every farm it touches. Charlie
Plushansky passes away in 1991, but the legacy
continues. His son Kerry, the boy who was willing
to sacrifice college for the farm, takes over,
continuing to breed and develop faith genetics
until his own passing in September 2025. Three
generations of a family who understood that some
things are worth more than money. That true wealth
isn't measured in dollars, but in the legacy
you leave behind. You're standing in your own
barn now, in 2025. You're facing your own impossible
choices. Replacement heifers at $3 ,800 each.
An 800 ,000 head shortage nationwide. Volatile
milk prices. The same pressures Charlie Plushansky
faced, just with bigger numbers. You probably
don't think about Charlie very often, but his
decision affects you directly. That cow with
exceptional longevity in your herd? She likely
carries faith genetics. The bull you're considering
from your AI catalog? Check the pedigree. You'll
probably find Jovina. Francisco, or another faith
descendant line. The math still works. Faith
genetics add an average of one lactation, 3 .8
versus 2 .8 industry average. That's $1 ,200
to $1 ,500 per cow in today's market. Multiplied
across millions of descendants worldwide, Charlie's
No created billions in value. But it's about
more than money. It's about the courage to think
long -term when everyone else is chasing quick
profits. about building something that lasts,
about saying no to good opportunities to preserve
great ones. You face your own crossroads. The
developer offering cash for your land, the investor
wanting to buy your best genetics, the temptation
to sell out and walk away. Remember Charlie Plushansky.
Remember that sometimes the hardest choice, saying
no to immediate profit, creates the greatest
legacy. Remember that one decision, made with
conviction, can echo through generations. The
next time you're facing an impossible choice,
ask yourself, am I building for today or for
tomorrow? Am I creating value or just capturing
it? Because 50 years from now, someone might
be telling your story. The question is, what
will that story be? You've just experienced the
Know That Built a Dynasty on the Bullvine podcast.
Charlie Plushansky passed away in 1991. His son,
Kerry, continued the legacy until his own passing
just this September. But Faith's genetics live
on in millions of cows worldwide, quietly adding
value to farms every single day. The next time
you're looking at your herd, check those pedigrees.
Look for Jovina in the European lines, Francisco
in the Canadian bloodlines. Any of Faith's four
daughters in the ancestry. You might discover
you've been benefiting from Charlie's decision
all along. If this story resonated with you,
share it with another dairy producer who needs
to hear it. Someone facing their own impossible
decision. Someone who needs to remember that
the hardest choice is often the right one. Visit
TheBullvine .com for more stories that challenge
what you think you know about dairy. Subscribe
to The Bullvine Podcast wherever you get your
podcasts. And remember, in an industry obsessed
with the newest genetics, sometimes the 50 -year
-old bloodlines are the ones saving your farm.
This has been The Bullvine Podcast. Keep breeding
better cattle and keep saying no to the wrong
opportunities so you can say yes to the right
ones. Until next time. Quiet strength they use
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