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 back to the
Bullvine Podcast. If you are a regular listener,
you know we spend a lot of time on this show
looking forward. We talk about the next index
release, the latest genomic breakthroughs, the
new tech hitting the barn floor. Right. Always
what's next. Exactly. But today, today we are
hitting the brakes. We are stopping the truck,
turning off the engine, and looking in the rearview
mirror. Because the story we have today isn't
just history. It is... Well, it's the blueprint.
It really is. When I was digging through the
source material for this, the architects of the
black and white breed, it honestly stopped me
in my tracks. It felt incredibly modern, even
though the ink on these documents has been dry
for 150 years. It really is something, isn't
it? You know, as farmers, we get so caught up
in the grind, the 4 a .m. alarms, the broken
scrapers, the milk price volatility. It is so
easy to forget that we are standing on a foundation
that someone else poured. And today's conversation
is exactly the kind of thing that reminds you
why you put your boots on in the morning. We
aren't just milking cows. We are continuing a
project that started with some incredibly stubborn,
visionary, and slightly crazy people in the 19th
century. Stubborn is definitely the right word.
We are digging into the lives of four specific
visionaries who, between 1852 and 1899, basically
imported the engine of the modern dairy industry.
And I want to set the expectations right now.
This isn't a dry lecture about herd book dates.
No, not at all. We are talking about blind ambition,
literally. We're talking about walking cows through
snowstorms. We are talking about financial risks
that would make a modern banker faint dead away
in his office. That is the perfect way to frame
it. When we look at the Holstein cow today, that
black and white dominant force that produces
the vast majority of the world's milk, we take
her for granted. We assume she was inevitable.
Like, of course the dairy industry looks like
this, but it wasn't inevitable. It was engineered.
It was built by a very small group of people,
a blind farmer in upstate New York, a massive
Boston merchant who probably weighed more than
a heifer, some fruit growers who just wanted
cheap fertilizer, and a wealthy reformer. I want
to start with the image that hooked me immediately.
This is the hook of the story, and it is honestly
cinematic. Okay. I want you to picture the scene.
It is the 1890s. We're in Lacona, New York at
a place called Brookside Farm. The air is probably
thick with dust and the smell of hay. And standing
in the middle of the aisle is Henry Stevens.
Henry Stevens, the father of the breed in so
many ways. But the thing you have to understand
about Henry at this point in his life is that
he is operating in the dark. Right. He lost his
sight in middle age due to an illness. So picture
a working dairy barn, the chaos, the animals
moving. And here is a man navigating it without
sight. But he isn't just navigating it. He is
dominating it. The source material describes
a moment where he is examining a cow. He isn't
standing back, looking at her top line. He is
right there, hands on. He runs his weathered
fingers along her spine. He traces the loin,
moves down the rump, feels the pin bones. He
is mapping the animal with his fingertips. And
this is where it gets technical. And frankly,
unbelievable he could tell his sons ward ralph
and floyd who were his eyes in many ways exactly
what that cow looked like and you don't just
mean her frame no i don't mean just her confirmation
i mean her color he would run his hand over the
rib and say she has a black patch here and a
white blaze here hold on that sounds like mythology
i mean come on can you actually feel the color
of hair or was he just messing with his sons
you know i've thought about this a lot and it
sounds impossible right but there are theories
Biologically, is white hair different from black
hair? I have no idea. Maybe. There is a theory
that pigmentation affects the texture or the
oiliness of the hair shaft. Or maybe the skin
thickness varies slightly between the pigmented
and non -pigmented areas because of how they
absorb heat. So there might be a physical difference.
There might be. But whether it was scientifically
accurate or not, his sons believed him. That's
the key. They trusted his tactile judgment more
than their own 20 -20 vision. If Henry felt the
cow and said she's the one, they bought her.
No questions asked. That level of trust is wild.
But it wasn't just a parlor trick. He wasn't
doing this to show off. He was looking or feeling
for something specific. What was he hunting for
with those hands? He was feeling for quality.
In the 1890s, before we had linear scoring or
ultrasound, quality meant the fineness of the
hide, the silkiness of the coat, the pliability
of the utter texture. Okay, so it's a whole body
feel. Exactly. A coarse, thick -hided cow was
seen as a beef animal, a slow metabolizer. Stevens
wanted a cow that felt like a racehorse. Thin
skin, visible veins, what we would call dairy
character today. He believed that a cow with
handling quality would convert feed into milk
more efficiently. And he was right. And his hands
picked out the legends. He assembled what they
called the Big Four Foundation cows, DeKalb II,
Netherland Hengervald, Bell Korndyke, and Helena
Burke. Those names might sound like ancient history
to some listeners. They do, but if you are milking
Holsteins in 2026, you are milking Henry Stevens'
legacy. D. Cole II is often called the queen
of the breed. Stevens bought her because of what
he felt in her structure. He didn't have a genomic
proof. He didn't have a sire summary. He had
his intuition and his fingertips. That connects
so deeply to the idea of stockmanship. We have
so much data now. We have robots that tell us
conductivity and rumination minutes, but there
is still something irreplaceable about putting
your hands on the animal. That is the big takeaway
here. Data is crucial. And we will see later
that these guys loved data. But stockmanship
is the art that makes the science work. Right.
Stevens represents that intuitive connection.
He knew his cows. He knew their temperament,
their appetite, their quirks. You can't get that
from a spreadsheet. You have to be in the barn.
So we have the blind visionary. He didn't start
this from scratch. These cows had to come from
somewhere. They weren't native to New York or
Boston. They were Dutch. And getting them here
wasn't exactly hopping on a Delta flight. Let's
go back to the origin story. It involves a ship,
some rum, and a very large man named Winthrop
Chenery. Winthrop Chenery, the merchant. This
guy was a character. He was based in Boston.
And the descriptions of him are just immense.
Six foot four, over 300 pounds. Giant of a man
in the 1850s. He made his money in the trade
routes, importing spirits, sugar, commodities.
And in 1852, one of his ships docks in Boston.
It's carrying the usual cargo rum, probably.
But the shipmaster has something else on board.
Right. The captain had brought a cow along. Now,
for the listeners who don't know maritime history,
this was standard practice. There was no refrigeration.
None at all. So if you wanted fresh milk for
your coffee or your cooking during a four -week
Atlantic crossing, you brought a cow. She lived
on the deck, probably in a makeshift pun, bracing
herself against the waves. She must have been
incredibly tough to survive a North Atlantic
crossing on the deck of a sailing ship. Tough
as nails. And when they docked, she was probably
gone, tired, and happy to see land. Channery
is walking the pier, checking his cargo. He sees
this cow. And he doesn't just see a cow. He sees
a machine. He asks the captain, how did she milk?
And the answer must have been shocking. It was.
Even after a sea voyage on terrible feed, she
was outproducing the local native cattle that
were living in comfortable barns. Channery was
a businessman. He recognized efficiency when
he saw it. He bought her on the spot. It wasn't
a grand plan to revolutionize agriculture. It
was an impulse buy. He essentially bought a used
car because the mileage was good. I love that.
It starts with an impulse buy. But then you have
the second figure, who is the complete opposite
of the merchant. Garrett Smith Miller, the reformer.
Miller is fascinating because he comes from serious,
serious old money. His grandfather, Garrett Smith,
was one of the wealthiest men in New York State,
but he was also a radical abolitionist. A huge
figure in that movement. A giant. The family
estate in Peterborough, New York, wasn't just
a farm, it was a sanctuary. It was a major stop
on the Underground Railroad. We aren't just talking
about passive support. I read that John Brown,
the John Brown who raided Harper's Ferry, plotted
that raid in their living room. Exactly. So young
Garrett Smith Miller grows up in this intense
moral environment. The air he breathed was about
reform. It was about fixing the world. You fix
slavery, you fix temperance, you fix women's
rights. And Miller, being a farm kid at heart,
decided he was going to fix agriculture. So how
does a rich kid with a reformer mindset land
on Holstein cattle? He was a student at Harvard.
In the evenings, he would go for long walks to
clear his head. And Winthrop Chenery's farm in
Belmont was nearby. So Miller walks past the
pastures in the twilight, and he sees these black
and white cattle channeries imports. And he has
an epiphany. He does. He looks at the native
cattle, which were mostly scrub cattle, devons,
maybe some poor shorthorns, and he sees inefficiency.
They ate a lot and gave very little. Then he
looks at the Dutch cattle. The difference must
have been night and day. Was. And he realized
that if he could bring those genetics to American
farmers, he could lower the cost of food production.
He famously said his mission was to make two
quarts of milk where there had been one before.
That is the definition of efficiency. It's almost
a tech startup mentality. I'm going to disrupt
the milk supply chain. It is. It wasn't just
about breeding pretty cows for him. It was about
feeding a growing nation, a moral cause. So we
have the merchant and the reformer. But my personal
favorite group is the third one, Smiths and Powell,
because they weren't dairymen at all. They were
fruit growers. The nurserymen. wing and judson
smith and edward powell they were based in syracuse
they ran a massive commercial nursery thousands
of fruit trees ornamental shrubs strawberries
they were huge but they had a problem the soil
The soil needed food. This is the 1870s. You
can't just call up the co -op and order a truckload
of synthetic nitrogen. It didn't exist. Right.
You had guano, which was expensive, or you had
manure. They needed massive industrial quantities
of manure to keep those trees growing. So they
looked at the Holstein cow and saw a fertilizer
spreader. Basically, they saw a large animal
with a massive appetite that produced a large
volume of waste. That's what they wanted. They
bought the cows to feed the trees. The milk was
just a byproduct. That is hilarious. But then
something changed. The accountant Powell started
running the numbers. He looked at the ledger
and realized, wait a minute. The milk checks
from these manure machines are actually making
more money than the pears and the apples. The
side hustle beat the main hustle. Completely.
They realized these cows were economic revolutions
on four legs. So they pivoted. They turned their
farm, Lakeside, into the Ellis Island of cattle.
They stopped worrying about the trees and started
importing cows by the hundreds. By 1889, they
had 500 head. They were the Amazon distribution
center of the Holstein breed. It's amazing how
different their motivations were, but they all
ended up in the same place. However, any good
story needs a crisis. And for these guys, the
crisis was life or death. We have to talk about
the turning point, and specifically, the plague.
This is the part of the story where you realize
how fragile this whole experiment was. It's 1859.
Winthrop Channery has spent seven years building
his herd. He's selecting the best, importing
them, breeding them, and then tragedy strikes.
Rinderpest. For the modern listener, that word
might just sound like an old history term. But
Rinderpest, the cattle plague, is terrifying.
It's the closest thing to a zombie apocalypse
for cattle. It's a morbillivirus related to measles.
It causes fever, lesions, death. It is highly
contagious and nearly 100 % fatal in naive herds.
When it hit Massachusetts, the state government
panicked. And rightly so. Right. If it escaped,
it could wipe out the entire U .S. livestock
industry. So what do they do? They didn't quarantine.
They didn't vaccinate. There was no vaccine.
They ordered total depopulation. The state vets
came to Chenery's farm, condemned the herd, and
killed every single animal. I want to pause there.
Imagine being Chenery. You are this proud, successful
man. You've poured your passion and your fortune
into these animals, and you have to stand there
and watch them be destroyed. The silence in that
barn afterwards must have been crushing. It's
the nightmare scenario. Most people, even tough
farmers, would have broken. They would have taken
the insurance check, if there was any, sold the
land and gone back to the rum trade. Why risk
your heart again? But Chenery didn't do that.
And this is the measure of the man. The source
material says that on the very same day the herd
was slaughtered, while the smell of gunpowder
and death was probably still in the air, he went
to his study and wrote a letter to his agent
in Holland. He ordered more cows. He ordered
replacements immediately. He didn't wait a week
to grieve. He didn't hesitate. He knew the vision
was right, even if the look was bad. That is
resilience on a level I can barely comprehend.
That is incredible. And that resilience saved
the breed, because the next importation included
the ancestors of almost everything we have today.
Exactly. If he had quit, the whole stein cow
in America might have died out right then and
there. That one decision changed everything.
Miller, the reformer, faced a different kind
of challenge. Not a virus, but the weather. The
snowstorm story? This one feels very visceral
to anyone who farms in the North. Oh yeah, this
is classic upstate New York. So Miller convinces
his brother Charles to go to West Friesland and
buy some stock. Charles buys a bull named Hollander
and three cows, Crown Princess, Dowager, and
Fraulein. They ship them across the ocean, then
put them on a train to Canistota, New York. They
arrive on October 19th, 1869. Now in October,
you expect maybe some rain, some chill. But this
is the snow belt. They step off the train into
five inches of wet, heavy snow. And they aren't
at the farm yet. They have to walk from Kenistota
to Peterborough. That is not a short walk. And
they are walking on the old plank road. Explain
the plank road for people who don't know. Before
asphalt, in muddy areas, they would lay down
wooden planks to create a road surface. Now imagine
wet wood covered in snow and slush. Oh, that's
a nightmare. It is slick as ice, and you are
trying to lead four terrified cattle who have
just come off a ship and a train up a hill on
slippery wood in a snowstorm. And these cows
are valuable. If one slips and breaks a leg,
it's a catastrophe. It was a high -stakes cattle
drive. Miller describes the struggle of getting
them up the hill, but they made it. And once
they got them into the barn, the comparison was
stark. Right. Miller had nine native cows in
the barn. Those three Dutch cows, once they recovered
from the trip, produced two -thirds as much milk
as the entire group of nine natives combined.
Wow. That walk in the snow proved the concept.
It was the physical demonstration of two courts
where there was one. It was. The proof was in
the pail. Immediately. Now, eventually, these
different threads, the merchant, the reformer,
the nurseryman, and the blind farmer, had to
intersect. And there was a moment, a specific
afternoon in 1876, that feels like a scene from
a movie. The buggy moment. Serendipity is a funny
thing. By 1876, Miller's Farm in Peterborough
is becoming famous. People are hearing about
these milk records. So on one autumn afternoon,
two separate buggies pull into his long driveway
at almost the exact same time. Who was in them?
In one buggy, you have the Smiths, the nurserymen
from Syracuse. In the other, you have Henry Stevens,
the blind farmer. Though he had some sight left
at this point, they didn't know each other. They
just happened to arrive at the sorts of the genetics
at the same moment. The two future dynasties
of the breed meeting in a driveway. That's incredible.
It's amazing. They both came to look. They both
stayed to buy. Stevens bought two cows that day,
May and Juno. He paid $300 a piece. Contextualize
that $300. What did that mean in 1876? A laborer
on a farm in 1870s might make a dollar a day,
maybe less. So $300 is a year's wages for one
cow. A whole year's salary. It's like paying
$40 ,000 or $50 ,000 for a commercial cow today.
It was a massive commitment of capital. But that
handshake, that meeting, launched the networks
that would dominate the breed for the next 50
years. It sounds like a gentleman's club, but
it wasn't always polite. We have to talk about
the journey through because it was full of fighting.
The feud. Alex juggles. Put two farmers in a
room, you get an argument. Put wealthy breeders
in a room, you get a war. The feud was between
the Shannery faction, the Boston group, and a
man named Thomas E. Whiting. What were they fighting
about? Something big, I assume? Purity. And color.
The flashpoint was a bull named Elswell. He was
a great bull, but he had a black face with a
white blaze. Which looks perfectly normal to
us. To us, yes. But Chinnery and the early purists
believed that a true Dutch cow should have a
white face or specific markings. They thought
the black face indicated mongrel blood, maybe
a cross with some other European breed. They
were obsessed with purity. And so they refused
to register him. They locked him out. And Whiting,
who owned the bull's genetics, went nuclear.
He accused them of being an exclusive club protecting
their own investments. So he started his own
herd book, the Dutch Friesian herd book versus
the Holstein herd book. So now we have two rival
organizations registering the same breed of cattle,
calling them different names, and writing nasty
editorials about each other in the farm papers.
Oh, the editorials were vicious. They called
each other frauds, swindlers. The stress was
immense. Thomas Whiting actually died at age
50, and people at the time really believed the
stress of the herd book war killed him. He worked
himself to death trying to prove his cows were
legitimate. But you mentioned something interesting
in our prep. This war, as toxic as it was, might
have actually helped the breed. Absolutely. Think
about modern media. Controversy sells. The Great
Cattle War was front page news in the agricultural
press. Farmers who had never heard of a Holstein
cow were now reading about this drama every week.
It was free marketing? It was huge. It put the
black and white cow on the map because everyone
wanted to see what all the fuss was about. No
such thing as bad publicity. Right. And eventually
they sorted it out. Exactly. Cooler heads prevailed.
They realized that fighting was bad for business.
In 1885, they merged the two associations to
form the Holstein -Friesian Association of America.
That's why the name is hyphenated. It was a peace
treaty. While the men were fighting, the cows
were working. We need to talk about the records.
Legitimacy isn't just about herd books. It's
about what hits the pail. Miller understood this
better than anyone. He put his cow dowager on
test. In 1871, she completed the first official
annual milk record in the United States. 12 ,681
pounds in 365 days. Again, for the modern ear,
12 ,000 pounds sounds like a cull cow. Right.
But the average cow in 1871 was giving maybe
4 ,000 pounds, if you were lucky. Dowager was
a super cow. She proved that these animals had
persistence. They didn't just milk hard for three
months and dry off. They milked all year. And
then Smiths and Powell pushed it even further
with Clothilde. Clothilde was a monster. In 1885,
she made 26 ,021 pounds. That is a respectable
record today for a low -input herd. In 1885,
it was science fiction. People didn't believe
it was biologically possible. Before we get to
the big showdown, I want to touch on the human
side again. Amidst the feuds and the records,
there's a story about names. The Nanny Smith
story. It's a small detail, but it shows the
heart behind the business. I love this story.
So Garrett Smith Miller is in Holland, walking
the polders, looking for cows. He's with his
brother. A Dutch farmer waves them down. The
farmer's name is Gerrit Smit, S -M -I -T. So
you have Gerrit Smit Miller meeting Gerrit Smit.
Two Gerrits, and they start talking probably
through a translator or broken English -Dutch,
and they realize they have more in common. The
Dutch farmer asks about Miller's family. Miller
mentions his grandmother and sister are named
Anne. The Dutch farmer's face lights up. He says,
my little daughter is named Annecy. That shared
connection across the ocean. It broke down the
barrier. The Dutch farmer decided to sell Miller
a heifer he was planning to keep for himself.
And when Miller asked what to name her in the
American herd book, the farmer said, name her
after my daughter. So she was registered as Nanny
Smith. That's wonderful. It just reminds you
that this trade wasn't just cold commerce. It
was people connecting with people over a shared
love of the animal. I love that. Okay, let's
move to the main event. The breakthrough. If
this were a sports movie, this is the championship
game. Madison Square Garden. Yeah. 1887. The
Dairy Show of 1887. This was the moment the Holstein
had to prove she wasn't just a water cow. Explain
the water cow insult. What did that mean? The
criticism from the Jersey and Guernsey breeders
was that Holsteins gave a lot of milk, but it
was blue, thin, and had no fat. They called it
skim milk on tap. At the time, butterfat was
where the money was. The Jersey was the undisputed
queen. And the Jersey breeders were arrogant
about it. Unbelievably arrogant. The president
of the American Jersey Cattle Club, Frederick
Bronson, was so sure his cows would win the butter
test at the show that he commissioned a silver
trophy worth $500. And he had a Jersey cow engraved
on it before the competition started. That is
just asking for bad karma. It is the ultimate
jinx. So the test begins. Now, the butter test
back then wasn't a lab test. They literally took
the milk from each cow, skimmed the cream. churned
it into butter right there at the show, and weighed
the butter. It was a 24 -hour churn test. So
it's manual, it's messy, and it's public. And
the Holsteins, led by Smiths and Powell's cow
Clothilde, crushed it. They produced more butter
than the Jerseys. Not just more milk, more actual
butter. The silence from the Jersey camp must
have been deafening. The Holstein breeders went
wild. They had beaten the establishment at their
own game. It proved that the Holstein was a dual
-purpose dairy cow volume and D solids. That
victory at Madison Square Garden really signaled
the changing of the guard. The Jersey Reign was
ending. The Holstein era was beginning. And right
around this time, our blind friend Henry Stevens
makes the gamble of his life. He does. The year
is 1891. Stevens is fully blind now. But he hears
about a dispersal sale. He goes in and pays $6
,000 for six head of cattle. That is an astronomical
amount of money for that time. It was everything
he had and more. But in that group was a deckhole
second. He had felt her. He knew she was the
future. And that gamble paid off in a way that
changed history. In 1912, a cow from his breeding
program, Pontiac Clothilde de Coltecanteble,
became the first cow of any breed to produce
1 ,000 pounds of butterfat in a year. The blind
man saw the furthest. He really did. He bred
the first 1 ,000 pound fat cow by touch. It's
just an unbelievable achievement. But as with
all things, time marches on. The ripple effect
brings us to the end of these men's lives. And
sadly, it wasn't a happy ending for all of them.
No. The era ended in fire and decline. Fire was
the scourge of the time. The Stevens barns at
Maplewood burned. The Smith's and Powell empire
collapsed when the car replaced the whore. Remember,
they bred carriage horses too, and that market
evaporated overnight. In Miller. The reformer.
Miller held on the longest. He became the grand
old man of the breed. But in 1936, tragedy struck.
The Peterborough Mansion house, the home where
the abolitionists met, where the history happened,
caught fire. It burned to the ground. Oh no.
Miller was 91 years old. Watching his ancestral
home burn broke his spirit. He died a year later
and his herd was dispersed. It's a sad end to
the men. But the genetics. The genetics are immortal.
That is the beautiful part. The men are gone,
but the cows are still here. The legacy lives
on in every barn. Let's look at the numbers.
16 generations later, what does that actually
mean? If you pull up the pedigree of a modern
legend, let's say Glenridge Citation Roxy, the
queen of the breed, if you trace her maternal
line back generation by generation, you go back
16 steps and you land squarely on cows imported
by Miller and Stevens. You land on Otile and
Ruka. It's a direct line. A direct unbroken line.
And there is a specific stat about Nicole Second,
the cow Stevens bought. What's that? Researchers
analyzed the pedigree of the entire North American
Holstein population. They found that decol genetics
contribute to something like 7 % of the genes
in the entire modern herd. 7 % from one cow?
She is everywhere. Every time you milk a Holstein,
you are milking a little bit of decol second.
That leads us to the Farmer Translator moment.
Yeah. Because this isn't just cool history. It
has... implications for us today, specifically
regarding inbreeding. Right. We talk about the
foundation, but foundation implies a narrowing,
a bottleneck. All of our modern cattle come from
this very small group of animals that survive
the rinderpest, the snowstorms, and the impulse
buys. So when farmers see inbreeding coefficients
creeping up, 8%, 10%. It's not just because they
used a popular bull last year. It's baked into
the cake. We are recycling the same genetics
that Miller and Stevens selected 150 years ago.
This is why outcrossed genetics are so hard to
find. There are no new lines. We are just shuffling
the deck that these four men handed us. It also
explains why our genomic reliability is so high.
Exactly. The reason we can predict a bull's performance
with 80 % accuracy is because the gene pool is
consistent. We are statistically relying on the
lack of variation. We are mining the gold that
they buried in the ground. That is a profound
way to look at it. We are the stewards of their
selection decisions. We are. If Chenery had bought
a different cow off that rum ship, or if Stevens
had preferred thick -hided cows, our industry
would look completely different today. The cow
effect. Like the butterfly effect. Exactly. The
cow effect. I like that. All right, let's wrap
this up. We have a listener on a tractor right
now, maybe chopping corn, maybe scraping the
barn. What are the takeaways? What's the one
thing they should sit with? I think there are
four things. First, measure what matters. Miller
invented the system that became DHIA. He weighed
the milk. If you don't track it, you can't improve
it. That is the golden rule of dairy. Amen to
that. Second, intuition plus data. Be like Henry
Stevens. We love genomics, but don't become a
paper breeder. Put your hands on the cow. Look
at her. The magic happens when you combine the
data with the art of stockmanship. Balance is
key. Third, resilience. This is the big one.
Channery's herd died, and he ordered more the
same day. Muller walked cows through a blizzard.
Farming is hard. It has always been hard. But
the industry is built on stubborn optimism. If
you are having a bad day, remember Channery standing
in that empty barn and refusing to quit. That's
a powerful thought. And the last one. Build families.
These men didn't chase freaks or one -hit wonders.
They built maternal lines. The big four. They
stacked generations of quality. That is how you
build a herd that lasts. Focus on consistent
cow families. Consistent cow families. That never
goes out of style. Never. There is a physical
reminder of this story, isn't there? A place
people can see. There is. If you ever find yourself
near Peterborough, New York, Drive down Oxbow
Road. There's a bronze plaque on a boulder. It's
called the Plymouth Rock of the Holstein Breed.
It marks the pasture where Miller's first cows
grazed. It's sacred ground for us. I think we
need to plan a bullvine road trip. I'll drive.
That's another story from the Bullvine Podcast.
These are the people who built the future of
dairy by looking at the past. And next time you
look at a black and white cow, just take a second.
Remember the blind man who felt her potential
before anyone else saw it? Find more stories
at www .thebullvine .com. Subscribe so you don't
miss the next deep dive. Thanks for listening.
Stay safe out there. Tell the tale, tell the
tale, the Beaumont legends live here.