A NO-NONSENSE COWMAN, Wayne Cleveland avoids fads and embraces hard work. He is not averse to risk, or he wouldn’t be in the cattle business, but he’ll seldom make the same bad gamble twice. The Panhandle rancher likes a cow with a little Longhorn in it for survivability, and he says the spotted calves that often result don’t hurt him because he carries them through the feedlot.

At 86, Wayne Cleveland Still
Enjoys The Cattle Challenge

By Colleen Schreiber

CANADIAN – At 86, Wayne Cleveland is still enjoying the day to day challenges of the cattle business. Ranching and the love of the land is in his soul.

He practices these philosophies: "buy them when no one else wants them;" "buy low and sell high, and that includes everything in life;" and "keep costs down and run her as far as she’ll go."

These principles and his ability to steer clear of fads and make things work with less have helped Cleveland build and maintain a successful operation for well over 40 years.

The second eldest of seven, Cleveland was born in Plains in 1912. His grandfather, Carlos Cleveland, lived in one of the JA horse pastures up north of Silverton in Briscoe County.

The Cleveland children referred to their father as "Big Stirrup," because he made his own stirrups, which he made larger than normal.

When George, Wayne’s father, and Lawrence, his brother, left home in 1901, Big Stirrup gave them $4 to be split equally. At Plainview the brothers decided to split up and George, being the younger, was given $1.25, his fair share of the money according to his brother.

George came to Yoakum County, where he took a job with the T2s for $25 a month. Settlers began filing on the surrounding land a year or two later, and George Cleveland joined in and took advantage of the opportunity. He started in the cattle business but he also had a 60-acre farm, which Cleveland says "kept them mad all the time." Times were tough, but like most families, the Clevelands didn’t know any different.

"Dad didn’t have anything to start on. We had it pretty rough. Seven hungry kids were hard to feed, but we raised our own garden, milked our own cows, butchered a hog or once in a while we might have beef," Cleveland says.

He vividly remembers the Dust Bowl, particularly the one Sunday that was so bad Cleveland was sure the world was about to come to an end.

"It was dry in that old country and you had to be a good cowman to survive," Cleveland says.

Wayne and his older brother Glen were only 18 months apart, and between the two they were always into some mischief. He admits he was ornery, but adds, "I was just trying to make my way."

For a time their uncle Lawrence lived with them. He was courting the neighbor girl, and every Saturday afternoon his uncle would come in, take a bath and put on clean clothes and ride over to his girlfriend’s house for a visit. Wayne and Glen took note of his routine and on one particular Saturday morning, they spent the morning climbing the windmill tower with little jugs of water to fill a five gallon bucket.

Riding out the gate, their uncle rode right under the windmill tower, and on cue, poised and prepared, they dumped the water on him. Their uncle climbed the tower, jerked them off, tied their ankles together, threw the pair over one of the rafters in the barn and rode off. Wayne reckons his uncle went back by the house to inform their parents, because a little bit later their mother came to their rescue.

Cleveland went to school in a one-room schoolhouse. The first two years his teacher lived with his family, so he rode in the buggy back and forth to school. Later he traveled horseback. He and his older brother rode double. The younger Cleveland always had the "back seat."

An old, ornery jack lived in one of the pastures the brothers had to cut through to get to school. The old jack had a tendency to aggravate the youngsters for intruding on his living quarters. Normally they were able to outrun him, but on one particular day they miscalculated. The younger Cleveland was riding shotgun, as usual, and when he looked back over his shoulder the jack was on their heels, baring his big old yellow teeth and on the verge of doing some damage to the young boy’s backside. Luckily, the man who owned the place saw their plight and managed to run interference before it was too late.

Cleveland says he never liked school much. His teacher recognized this and put him through four grades the first two years. He graduated from high school at age 15.

While in high school he worked at the cotton compress in Lubbock, pushing cotton bales around. "I didn’t like that too much," he says. He had other odd jobs as well. He made the wheat harvest a couple of years. He worked the harvest during the day and took a shift plowing at night. For this he made $2.50 a day.

When Cleveland was 17, he hired on with Joe Lane at Jal, New Mexico, to drive 1100 mama cows and calves to Tatum.

"Old Man Lane," he says, hired about twice as many men as he needed, but he thinned them out regularly. Cleveland started out wrangling horses, but within a couple of days he graduated up to cow punching. Because he was the young buck in the bunch, the other cowboys were always testing his ability. More often than not he drew the rankest horses of the bunch. Cleveland managed to finish up the cattle drive without getting weeded out.

He recalls that the drive took a little longer than normal because, he says, "Mr. Lane liked to graze his neighbor’s grass better than his own."

He continued to work for Lane after that drive. Lane had a policy which required his cowboys to change horses at noon. On one particular day, as usual, he drew another of the broncs. Rather than change at noon, Cleveland decided he would go against policy and keep riding his morning horse and perhaps work some of the orneryness out of him.

Later that afternoon, Lane asked if he had ridden the same horse all day and Cleveland knew right away he had erred. Lane told him and another young fellow to get their bedrolls and throw them in the back of his old jalopy. Thinking he had been fired, he did as he was told. On the way into town, Cleveland asked if he wouldn’t mind dropping him off at his dad’s place rather than leave him in town. Lane told him he sure hated to do that, but in the end he relented.

For years Cleveland says he lived with the humiliation of being fired. Turns out that many years later, he happened onto the other young fellow who supposedly had the same fate that day. They were reminiscing, and Cleveland mentioned the humiliation of being fired.

The other fellow told him, "Wayne, you weren’t fired. You quit. Mr. Lane was just taking us over to Tokio to drive some more horses back."

During the Depression, Cleveland worked whatever jobs were available. "It was rough, but I didn’t have it so bad that I couldn’t make $30 a month," he recalls.

He cowboyed for a while for Ed Smith at the T2s where his father had started out. It was Smith, Cleveland says, who helped him get his start by allowing him to run some cattle on the side while working full-time for him. Before long, Cleveland was operating as much country as his boss.

The oil boom hit the small West Texas towns in the 1930s and things kind of came to life. In the end, however, it was the oil boom, Cleveland says, which crowded him off his land. That, along with the never-ending dry weather, forced Cleveland to look at opportunities in other parts of the state.

He had always heard that the Panhandle was good cow country, so he had a business associate keep an eye out for a place that might work for him. In 1939 he found what he was looking for and made a down payment on four sections in Hemphill County. He paid $9.50 an acre, which was a hefty sum in those days. Many, including his father, wondered if he would ever get it paid for.

He proved his father and everyone else wrong. It wasn’t long before he leased an additional three sections. Cleveland has continued in that fashion over the years, buying and leasing land as it became available. His goal, he says, was just to make a living, but growing, he realized, was necessary for survival.

"There’s not near as many people in the countryside today. Used to you could survive on a section or two, but it takes considerable more to make a living now."

He says it’s more of a challenge today to buy land or find land to lease, in large part because there’s so much tied up in the federal Conservation Reserve Program.

"I can’t compete with the rate the government is paying for letting the ground lay," he says.

Before moving to the Panhandle, Cleveland sold all but 30 of his dry cows. His dad later sold him another 45 on credit. Thus, in 1940 he arrived in Canadian with 30 cows, a daughter and a horse. His young bride, Ruth, had dreams of a place with a running creek. She remembers arriving to a "dismal" sight with nothing for miles around but sagebrush and no creek. There wasn’t much of a house on the place, either.

"We had to move the chicken and the cows out of the house before we could even move in," Cleveland recalls. "You don’t want too much in the way of improvements when you buy a place. Improvements can break you." That’s a policy he follows today when purchasing additional land.

Average annual rainfall in Hemphill County is said to be 22 inches. His country is mostly watered by windmills but he has a few submergible pumps as well. It was unusually dry and very still this summer, and Cleveland says he’s hauled more water this summer than he has all his life.

The drouth of the 1950s tested his abilities as a manager. He survived by shipping his steers to grass in the Flint Hills of Kansas. Jean Jones, his second eldest daughter, who now resides in Lubbock with husband Frank, operates her own place at Crosbyton. Jean says she was just old enough to remember the drouth and small enough to think that they sure enough were going to starve to death.

It’s a country of extremes, and Cleveland says they’ve had their share of winter storms as well, like the blizzard of 1957, when he lost lots of livestock.

His country is good grama grass, but Cleveland says he also likes the Old World bluestems. Over the years he’s bought some abandoned farmland which he’s put back into native grass or introduced varieties of Old World bluestems.

There’s plenty of sand sage as well. It’s not one of the preferred forages, though Cleveland says one old fellow used to tell him that he didn’t use his country until the cattle ate the sand sage.

Cleveland has always believed in taking care of his land. Daughter Jean calls her father a true conservationist. She’s watched old abandoned fields cover over and thicken up with grass, thanks to her father’s careful attention. She remembers helping her dad spread manure out across some of the abandoned fields.

"We were pretty little, because I remember Daddy positioning my brother, David, in the floorboard so he could work the gas pedal and I stood on the seat and ran the wheel while daddy spread the manure out of the back."

Jones remembers hunting "teepees" in one particular abandoned field when they were little. Teepees, she says, were round patches of buffalo grass. They would set up their Indian headquarters in these buffalo grass patches. Because of her dad’s conservation efforts, that old abandon field is now covered in "teepees," she says.

Jean says her dad has never been one to fall into the trendy traps.

"He told me once he had somehow managed to dodge self-feeders and sprinkler systems and he was darn glad of it," Jean says.

He never fell into feeding his livestock out of the back of a pickup, either. Instead, he feeds horseback.

"It’s a good way to check your cattle," Cleveland says. "but it’s hard to find cowpunchers that still want to do it that way."

Cleveland knows his cattle. During a working one day, one of his compadres challenged him to a bet to pick out a baby calf and then be able to identify that same calf the following year at delivery. He took the bet and garnered a $50 hat out of the deal.

Cleveland began crossbreeding cattle before it became popular. A number of years ago he shifted from a straight Hereford herd to quarter-Longhorn cross cows.

"They’re hardy critters," Cleveland says. "I’d take them any day over a straight Hereford cow. They raise a calf every year. They’re survivors."

He admits that his cows are likely to throw any and all colored calves, but because he carries them through the feedlot, he says, the spots don’t matter.

Though he’s always maintained a cow herd, it’s his steer operation that has been his mainstay. He started in the steer business the second year after moving to Hemphill County.

"Steers are just a better deal. You can run more to the acre than cows (he figures 75 to 100 to the section), and if you get lucky, you can make a little money."

Mrs. Cleveland says her husband has always paid close attention to the little details.

"He figures everything pretty close," she remarks.

Jean agrees.

"Daddy has always had the bit in his mouth. He’s always managed to do things on less, and basically has run his place all these years on muscle and nerve."

Eldest daughter, Joyce Craft, says her father was always looking for ways to do things just a little bit cheaper.

"He never spent money on things he didn’t absolutely need," Craft says. "He learned during the Depression how to make something work even though he had to do without some things. For instance, he never spent money on fine horses and his horses always had his personality."

He runs strictly steers, no heifers. Cleveland says a good time to buy is when no one else wants them. But, in general, cattle are coming and going year-round at the Cleveland place. For the last couple of years he’s bought cattle out of Georgia.

Cleveland prefers the black-hided cattle with some exotic blood — the big, framey kind, he says. He usually buys three and a half to four-weight cattle, but this past spring, prices were such that he bought a lot of six-weights.

"You can cheapen them back considerably on grass if you have a good year," Cleveland remarks. "Say, if you put 200 pounds on 600 pound steers that would cheapen them back $20 a hundred."

When he first started his steer operation, he sold them straight off grass. Today Cleveland most always retains ownership through the feedlot, though he says he did sell one bunch of steers off grass a couple of years ago when the feeder market topped out at $90. Over the years he’s had as many as 3000 on feed at one time. He usually markets them weighing 750 to 800 pounds.

Cleveland knows all too well just how risky feeding cattle can be.

"When you get to the feedyard, you really have to take what they offer, and you’re lucky if you win," he says.

The steer business has been a disaster this year, but Cleveland says this year still hasn’t been as bad for him as 1973. That was the year he nearly lost it all.

"I was already old then," Cleveland remarks. "I never thought I would live long enough to make it back."

The current wreck, he expects, is likely breaking more people than the one in the 1970s.

"Cattle got so high this time around. I think it’s some kind of disease — paying too much for feeders."

Every morning as part of his daily ritual, Cleveland goes to the feedlot to look over his steers and then about 10:30 he goes to the bank, what he calls his "office time," to check the cattle futures on the DTN machine.

Cleveland says the futures market owes him, too, but he’s decided to let them keep it rather than try and get it back.

"I’m afraid if I try to get my money back out of the futures market, it would just get more to go with what I’ve already lost. It’s a hard thing to beat," he continues. "If I could go short, I could probably beat it, but I get nervous when I go short, so I stay long."

The way cattle are marketed has changed tremendously, Cleveland says, particularly the way they’re all sold on the average.

"This market looks like it’s going to kill everybody that’s big enough to die," Cleveland says. "It’s not any good, and it looks like it’s going to last awhile, I’m afraid."

Those who have traded with Cleveland over the years can attest to him being an astute businessman. He has made lots of deals in his 86 years — some good, some not so good. The best deal he made by far, he says, was marrying his wife, Ruth. They’ve been together for 63 years.

Cleveland is still in the thick of things, buying and selling and making the decisions on his operation, but grandson Grayson Craft has been by his side full-time since 1985. Craft started working for his grandfather when he was 11. He spent every summer and every holiday break with his grandparents.

"He asked me on one of my weekend visits in 1985, ‘Scrub boy, (a nickname given to him by his grandfather) are you sure this is what you want to do?’" Craft remembers. "I assured him it was.

"I developed a pretty special relationship with the man over the years," Grayson says. "We just clicked. He’s as ornery as a goat, but he’s a man of action and one of the smartest I’ve ever known."

Grayson says his grandfather has taught him so much, more than just the practical things like how to pull a windmill and set corners. He’s taught him the importance of thinking ahead and being prepared.

"Just when you think you know how to do it, he teaches you something else. I remember one day we were on the back side of the place and we needed to go back for something to pull the well. Instead, he told me to get a gallon of sand. In the meantime, granddad was wetting a cloth. We put the cloth about a foot down in the well, poured sand around it and then poured water on top of the sand. We made what he called a ‘sand hitch,’ and it pulled that 300 foot well."

Cleveland says he wouldn’t do anything different because he’s doing something he enjoys.

"I’m fortunate in that most people go through this world doing something they don’t enjoy. Unless you enjoy what you’re doing, you’re not likely to be very good at it.

"It’s a tough ole’ business, but I’ve stayed in it because it’s all I know."

Cleveland says he fully intends to survive this round in the cattle business, and true to form, adds, "when the time is right, I’ll be back."