Pig money bought the heifer that his neighbors laughed at. Today, Harborcrest Rose Milly EX-97 runs through every Holstein pedigree in North America.

The cows came over the hill that June morning in 1961, and Dick Brooks forgot why he’d stopped by.
He’d been on his way to the National Holstein Convention in Cleveland, figured he’d visit his old neighbor John Snoddy in West Salem, Ohio—maybe look at some cattle for the new herd he was putting together out in Colorado. But when those Holsteins crested that rise behind the barn, walking single file through the summer pasture, Brooks stood there like a man who’d just seen something he couldn’t quite name.
At the head of the line was a five-year-old cow. Tall. Sharp. Angular in a way that made you look twice. She had a head on her like nothing he’d ever seen—perfect, really, the kind of head that makes everything else about a cow fall into place. Her legs were clean and strong with exceptional heel. And the way she moved…
“I thought it was as impressive a sight as I had seen in a long time,” Brooks would write years later. What he couldn’t say then—what none of them could’ve known—was that he was looking at the cow who’d help reshape Holstein genetics for the next half century.
Her name was Harborcrest Rose Milly.
And the story of how she got to that hill in Ohio? That starts with a man selling pigs to buy a cow nobody wanted.
The Night John Snoddy Bet the Pig Money
Fall of 1954. Cold. Damp. One of those Ohio evenings that seeps into your bones.
John Snoddy stood in a drafty auction tent at the Shearer & Hodge dispersal in Lakeville, Ohio, his pockets warm with cash from market hogs he’d sold that morning. The neighboring farmers huddled together, stamping their feet on the packed dirt, watching registered and grade Holsteins parade through in the dim light. Nothing special about the sale—just another dispersal, the kind that dotted the Midwest every autumn.
Snoddy was looking for something to upgrade his herd. When a gangly two‑year‑old heifer entered the ring—exceptionally tall, almost too leggy, with what he’d later describe as “a little bitty udder”—something made him pay attention. Her sire’s name, Bonheur Canuck Supreme, told him there was Canadian blood there. That meant Mount Victoria breeding, the concentrated Montvic genetics that had built some of Canada’s most admired cattle.
He bid $375. Below the sale average.
The gavel fell.
On the drive home, his wife, Blanche, walked through the barn to check on their new purchase. The heifer stood in a tie‑stall, her hind legs in the gutter, all awkward angles and excessive leg.
“Oh my gracious,” Blanche said to herself. “I hope we haven’t wasted the pig money.”
When John’s brothers saw the heifer, they laughed. Neighbors laughed. Too long‑legged, they said. What was John thinking?
Here’s the thing about John Snoddy, though. He had this habit—and this is in the record, not just a nice story—of sitting in his church choir on Sunday mornings, gazing down at the congregation and studying faces. He’d watch how children’s features combined traits from both parents. Sometimes they got the best of each other. Sometimes they got the worst. Knowing those families back two or three generations, he mentally cataloged which traits dominated, which receded, trying to understand why one child turned out one way and the next completely different.
Snoddy believed cattle worked the same way. And when he looked at that gangly heifer—Supreme Fay Marilyn—he saw something in the breeding that his neighbors missed.
He bred her to Rainbow Sir Rose, a bull he and his brothers had proven themselves with. Rose carried six crosses to Sir Bess Ormsby Fobes 56th in just five generations—one of the most intensely linebred animals in the Midwest, the product of Robin Carr’s concentrated breeding program in Michigan.
On Christmas Eve, 1955, the result of that mating hit the straw.
They named her Milly.
The Heifer Nobody Wanted
Now, here’s what gets most people when they first hear this story. As a calf, Milly was exactly what you’d hope for—tall, long‑bodied, with that beautiful head and neck that would become her trademark. But as she grew into a heifer in the late 1950s, visitors to Harborcrest Farm walked right past her.
She was too leggy. Too shallow‑bodied. Too much rib and not enough middle by the standards of that era.
Buyers would come through the barn and pick the shorter heifers with more barrel—those “safe” ones that fit the picture in breeders’ minds at the time. Milly stood in her stall, and nobody gave her a second look.
Snoddy, though—he couldn’t stop watching her. He called it her “dairy quality,” that magnetism you can’t quite define but you know it when you see it. Something about the way she was put together, the way she carried herself.
She freshened and went to work. First classification at two years, eleven months: Very Good‑87. Nothing that made the coffee‑shop gossip. At three and a half, she made 17,959 pounds of milk with 767 pounds of fat at 4.3 percent—solid numbers for a young cow in that time, but not the kind that made the front page of Holstein‑Friesian World.
Snoddy bred her three straight times to Raven Burke Ideal, an Excellent Gold Medal sire that was really working in his herd. The first mating produced a bull calf born dead—the kind of loss that hits a breeder harder than the ledger ever shows. The second was Harborcrest Maple Raven, who would eventually be classified as EX‑94. The third produced a bull, Harborcrest Sunshine, who went into service at Northern Ohio Breeders Association.
During that third lactation, something changed.
At five years old, Milly made 23,355 pounds of milk with 963 pounds of fat, and her classification jumped to EX‑91. She’d grown into that frame. All that leg and length that looked wrong as a heifer suddenly made perfect sense on a working cow.
And that’s about when an old neighbor named Dick Brooks came home for a visit.
Two Days That Changed Dairy History
Dick Brooks wasn’t some hobby breeder dabbling in black‑and‑white cattle. He was the son of Ohio’s largest draft horse dealer, a kid who’d grown up watching his father and grandfather read livestock the way other people read books. Before moving west, he’d built an Ohio Holstein herd that averaged 601 pounds of fat—big‑league numbers for that era.
Family health pulled him to Colorado. By 1960, he’d scraped together a partnership with a Dallas oilman and two Michigan Volkswagen dealers, and they put up Paclamar Farms near Louisville, Colorado. The name came from their wives—Patricia, Clara, Margaret—and the place didn’t look like your typical family dairy. It sprawled across 1,240 acres with seventeen steel‑frame buildings, a show string, and big ambitions.
Brooks needed foundation cows—females with enough genetic firepower to build a program around.

So that June morning in 1961, on his way to the National Holstein Convention in Cleveland, he turned off the main road to see what his old neighbor in West Salem was milking.
When he walked up behind the barn and saw Milly leading the herd over that hill, he felt it in his gut.
“She was tall and sharp, a little shallow in the rib, both fore and rear,” he later wrote, “perfect in udder shape and teat placement, and had the most nearly perfect leg from the standpoint of combination and cleanness with heel that I had ever seen.”
He wanted her. Badly.
Snoddy was just as determined not to sell.
What followed were two days of quiet, persistent negotiation between men who respected each other—two breeders who knew exactly what was on the table, two friends who each had their reasons. Brooks needed cows who could put Paclamar on the map. Snoddy loved this cow and, maybe even more, what she represented for his little herd.
They finally reached an agreement. Harborcrest Rose Milly would go to Paclamar Farms for $5,000, serious money in 1961, but not outrageous for a proven Excellent cow. She’d stay in Ohio through her current lactation. And she’d be bred to the Wis Captain before she left.
Driving away, Brooks must’ve felt like he’d done well. Good cow. Great breeding. Strong record.
Years later, he wrote the line that shows how small even his vision was compared to what she became: “No one, including John and myself (who probably liked her more than most), ever dreamed she should develop to the point of being All‑Time All‑American and one of the greatest brood cows of all time.”
The Colorado Transformation
Milly arrived at Paclamar in March 1962, and her world changed.
This wasn’t a 40‑cow stanchion barn where the breeder raked his own hay between milkings. Paclamar had hired herdsmen, specialized feed, and time to turn a good cow into a great show cow. More importantly, she shared the barn with another giant in the making: Snowboots Wis Milky Way, a cow who would become Milly’s great rival and mirror.
The two of them set the standard for each other. Every day, side by side in those tie‑stalls, they showed the crew what “enough cow” really meant.

That fall, Paclamar did something nobody had pulled off since Reserve Championships were added in 1935. At the National Dairy Cattle Congress, they led out two aged cows from the same herd. Milly was named Grand Champion. Snowboots stood Reserve.

Think about that for a second. A herd barely two years old owned the two best Holstein cows on the grounds.
When the All‑American ballots came in that year, Harborcrest Rose Milly—then scored EX‑94—was named All‑American Aged Cow with 18 first‑place votes. It was a big deal.
But what came next made that look almost ordinary.
The Years Nobody Could Touch Her
The next four years are where Milly leaves the realm of “great cow” and moves into legend.
In 1963, she showed as a dry cow between lactations, still sharp as a tack. She was named Grand Champion at the Utah State Fair and Honorable Mention All‑American Dry Cow. That same year, classifiers raised her to EX‑96.
Then came 1964.
When the All‑American ballots were counted that fall, the committee must’ve gone through the stack twice, just to be sure. Every single judge had placed Harborcrest Rose Milly first.
Thirty ballots. Thirty firsts. Zero seconds. Zero thirds. Two hundred ten points.
Unanimous.
No cow would match that feat for another sixteen years—not until Northcroft Ella Elevation did it in 1980.
And here’s what really made breeders shake their heads in disbelief: she wasn’t doing this as a pampered show princess. She was doing it while working like a freight train.
At 8 years old, Milly produced 24,941 pounds of milk at 5.0 percent butterfat, yielding 1,242 pounds of fat. No All‑American Aged Cow had ever reached 1,200 pounds of fat in a year. Milly was the first.
She came back at nine with 25,630 pounds of milk and 1,040 pounds of fat—her third straight record over 1,000 pounds. Only one cow in the breed’s history had done that before her.
In 1965, she collected her third All‑American Aged Cow title. In 1966, at ten years old, she made just one state show appearance—the Nebraska State Fair, where she was Grand Champion. Even with that limited schedule, she earned Reserve All‑American and still received more first‑place votes than any other aged cow in the country.
Then, on August 8, 1966, the classifiers walked into her stall at Paclamar and did something they’d only done twice before in Holstein history.
They scored Harborcrest Rose Milly 97 points.
What 97 Meant in 1966
The thing about those old‑time classifiers is they didn’t hand out high scores to be nice.
This wasn’t a digital system averaging numbers from a tablet. These were men who’d walked through thousands of barns, studying legs and udders in the cold and dust, and they guarded those top scores like a vault. A 97 in 1966 meant you weren’t just looking at a great cow.
You were looking at the edge of what they believed was possible.
The first 97 had gone to Linden Dictator Wimpy in 1963. The second to Milly’s own stablemate Snowboots in July 1965. When Milly joined them in 1966, there were exactly three cows on the planet with that number beside their name.
At the time of the 1967 Paclamar sale, Milly was eleven years old, weighed 2,105 pounds, and stood five feet at the shoulder—the same height as her dam and her best daughter. They kept her in a big, high‑sided box stall that would’ve made most cows look small.
She just looked right there.
Massive. Powerful. And still, somehow, unmistakably dairy.
The $9,000 Mistake
But if you really want to understand how Milly changed the breed, you have to talk about the January calf that almost everyone misjudged.
January 19, 1964. While the Gemini program was ramping up and America was looking toward the moon, Paclamar was looking at a newborn bull calf in a straw pen.
He was out of Harborcrest Rose Milly and sired by Thonyma Ormsby Senator. They named him Astronaut.
He was tall and gangly, not particularly strong in his topline—“kept him from smoothing up,” Brooks later admitted. Senator himself wasn’t a fashionable sire. On paper, he was a minus‑production bull, predicted at ‑1,089 pounds of milk, but his daughters averaged 82.8 points and carried tremendous type. Brooks, a believer in Bill Weeks’ aAa breeding system, had picked Senator after studying Milly’s strengths and weaknesses and deciding he could at least improve one of the traits Weeks had flagged—temperament and teat size.
Senator was bred the way Brooks loved: packed with Kansas Triune‑Burke blood, the kind of linebreeding that stamps a family.
That spring, sale manager Billy King came through Paclamar looking for consignments to the 1964 National Convention Sale at Gaithersburg, Maryland. He took one look at Milly’s calf and begged Brooks to put him in the sale.
Paclamar went all in. They bought the center spread of Holstein‑Friesian World and ran Milly’s picture across it with a bold promise: “You can own a son of the only All‑American 96‑point cow with over 1000 fat!”
But when Astronaut walked into the Gaithersburg barns that June, he didn’t look like the second coming. He looked frail. Almost sickly. The word around the sale was that Curtiss Breeding Service wasn’t going to bid. When folks tried to talk to AI reps about “Milly’s bull,” they got quick subject changes and polite smiles.
Sale day—June 11, 1964. The weather was beautiful, the pavilion packed. Astronaut came into the ring looking as good as he’d looked all week… and still, he didn’t take anyone’s breath away.
Bidding started slow. Billy King’s syndicate pushed. A Washington lawyer stayed in for a bit, then dropped out.
Nine thousand dollars.
The gavel fell.
“I was the most disappointed person there,” Brooks later wrote. He’d expected something closer to 30,000.
Here’s what nobody in that arena understood yet: the genetics don’t care what a calf looks like at five months.
Within a few years, Astronaut would become the youngest bull ever to earn Gold Medal status through AI. By 1987, he’d have 59,949 tested daughters on record—more than any sire in U.S. history at that time—and rank just behind Round Oak Rag Apple Elevation in all the big categories that matter.
The $9,000 “disappointment” turned into one of the greatest sires the Holstein breed has ever seen.

Through him, Milly’s genetics poured into the national herd. His daughter, Anacres Astronaut Ivanhoe, produced a calf at Hanover Hill Farms, which they named Hanoverhill Starbuck, who went on to sire 41 All‑Americans and 34 All‑Canadians. Another daughter, Jim‑Mar‑D Astronaut Gail, became an equally important bull mother for a different group of sires.
Startmore Rudolph? His third dam was an Astronaut daughter.
Today, try to find a high‑genomic Holstein that doesn’t trace back to Milly through Astronaut somewhere in the pedigree.
Go ahead. It’ll take a while.
The 1967 Pairing
November 10, 1967. National Western Stadium Sale Pavilion, Denver. Paclamar had decided to disperse part of the herd, 249 head from the 425 on the farm.
For Lot 1, Brooks did something gutsy. He paired his two greatest assets and offered the buyer’s choice: Harborcrest Rose Milly, nearly twelve years old, and Paclamar Bootmaker, the young EX bull out of Snowboots, who looked ready to take on the world.
Bidding climbed fast. Eugene Vesely of E‑L‑V Ranch in Michigan pushed hard, stopping at $77,000. A buying syndicate bumped it to 80,000.
The gavel fell. The syndicate had the choice.
They took Bootmaker.
The young bull, with his whole future in front of him, went to new owners. Milly—the queen, the three‑time All‑American, the 97‑point matriarch—stayed at Paclamar.
Vesely had been bidding for Milly. He’d have taken her home in a heartbeat.
A bull had just outbid her—a bull she’d never meet.

The Last Calf
Milly kept right on working.
In January 1968, she dropped a bull calf by Ja‑Sal Skyliner Belina that went into service at American Breeders Service. In April 1969, she gave them her last daughter—Paclamar Reflection Millie—who would score EX‑93.

After that, breeding her got harder. They tried to settle her artificially and failed, time after time. Finally, in a move that shows how much they still believed in her, they hauled her over to Boulder Valley Farms and bred her naturally to Paclamar Triune Jethro.
She stuck.
In June 1971, at fifteen years old, Harborcrest Rose Milly calved again—a bull, by all accounts an outstanding‑looking youngster.
About an hour after he was born, Milly lay down.
On the calf.
He died.
The moment must’ve been gut‑wrenching for the people who’d worked with her all those years—to finally get her in calf again, to get one more piece of those genetics on the ground, and then lose it like that. Whether she was exhausted, whether her legs simply gave out, the record doesn’t say. It just says the calf died.
During that fifteenth lactation, Paclamar partner Darrell Pidgeon milked her by hand. She’d always gone through the parlor, but by then she was getting frail, and they gave her that consideration. Milly and nine others were kept in roomy box stalls and turned out into a small paddock with good hay.
“Milly was not the kind of cow who trembled from nervousness,” Darrell remembered, “but she was strong‑headed and would occasionally show this trait when being milked.”
Even at sixteen, she had opinions. Even at sixteen, she wasn’t about to pretend to be ordinary.
On July 3, 1972—sixteen years and six months after that Christmas Eve birth in Ohio—Harborcrest Rose Milly died.
They didn’t need to carve anything fancy on a stone. The record had already written her epitaph.
What She Left Behind
The numbers alone stop you.
Lifetime: 210,090 pounds of milk at 4.2 percent for 8,741 pounds of fat. Three All‑American Aged Cow titles. All‑Time All‑American Aged Cow. Part of the All‑Time All‑American Produce of Dam. Eight offspring—seven scored Excellent, six earning Gold Medal status. Five sons, all transmitting +1,000 pounds of milk back when that was the mark of a real sire.
But numbers don’t quite capture what Milly meant.
Her son, Astronaut, standing in AI studs instead of show rings, put 59,949 tested daughters into American barns. That conservatively means 150,000 or more Milly granddaughters were added to the national herd as those daughters calved and multiplied. His daughters, Anacres Astronaut Ivanhoe and Jim‑Mar‑D Astronaut Gail, became two of the most influential bull mothers of their generation, opening the door for Starbuck, Rudolph, and a host of others.

Remember that homely heifer Snoddy bought at the Shearer & Hodge dispersal in 1954? Supreme Fay Marilyn quietly milked until she was twenty, stacking up 166,000 pounds of lifetime milk and finally scoring Excellent in her twentieth year. That family—Marilyn, Milly, Maple Raven, Reflection Millie, the Astronaut daughters—was, by any fair measure, the most influential Holstein cow family of the 1960s and 1970s.

The pig money gamble more than paid off.
The Standard She Set
Go stand in any good Holstein barn in North America today.

Pull a few registration papers. Trace back the maternal lines, follow the sire stacks, and map the genetic pathways like fence lines on a section map.
You’ll find her.
Through Astronaut, through Starbuck, through Rudolph, through countless sons and grandsons whose names are half‑forgotten, Milly proved that extreme size and extreme production could live in the same frame. That you could have a cow who could win the biggest shows in the land and still post records that made DHIA testers blink. That concentrated breeding—those Sir Bess Ormsby Fobes lines stacked on Mount Victoria genetics—could produce something greater than anyone expected when a choir‑singing breeder in Ohio raised his hand at $375.
More importantly, she proved that genetic greatness can come from anywhere.
John Snoddy bought her dam with pig money, bred her to a bull he and his brothers had proven themselves, and from that modest beginning came a dynasty that touches almost every modern Holstein on the continent.
Every time you see a tall, sharp Holstein cow with that indefinable dairy quality—that magnetism Snoddy recognized but couldn’t quite name—you’re looking at what Milly left us. Every time a classifier steps into a stall and sees something that stops them cold, they’re still chasing the standard she set.
The Bottom Line
The hillside behind John Snoddy’s old barn is probably somebody else’s pasture now—or maybe it’s grown over, the fence lines sagging and the tracks of those old cows long gone. The big steel barns at Paclamar have been repurposed or torn down, the land folded into a different kind of operation, as land always is.
But if you stand in a barn on a summer morning and thumb through the pedigrees of the cows chewing their cud in front of you, you can still see that family moving across the grass toward a future none of them could’ve imagined.
A 375‑dollar heifer. A pig money gamble. A cow who came over a hill in Ohio and changed everything.
Harborcrest Rose Milly. Born Christmas Eve, 1955. Died July 3, 1972.
Proof that legends aren’t born looking like legends.
They’re bred by people who see what others miss.
KEY TAKEAWAYS
- From pig money to pedigree royalty: John Snoddy paid $375 for a gangly heifer his neighbors mocked—her granddaughter Milly became one of three cows in history to score EX-97 and the dam of the most prolific proven sire of her era.
- The $9,000 “mistake” reshaped the breed: Milly’s son Paclamar Astronaut sold for a fraction of expectations, then sired 59,949 tested daughters and opened the genetic pathway to Starbuck, Rudolph, and modern high-genomic Holsteins.
- Show ring dominance backed by real production: Three-time All-American Aged Cow, unanimous 1964 winner (30/30 firsts), and the first All-American to break 1,200 lbs fat in a single lactation—Milly proved type and production aren’t trade-offs.
- Breeding vision beats popular opinion: Snoddy’s choir-loft study of inherited traits and Dick Brooks’ commitment to concentrated linebreeding created a cow family that still influences nearly every Holstein pedigree in North America today.
Executive Summary
In 1954, Ohio dairyman John Snoddy spent $375 in pig money on a gangly heifer his neighbors laughed at—Supreme Fay Marilyn. Her Christmas Eve 1955 daughter, Harborcrest Rose Milly, would score EX-97, claim three All-American Aged Cow titles including a unanimous 30-for-30 vote, and stack up 210,090 pounds of lifetime milk. Purchased by Colorado’s Paclamar Farms in 1961, Milly dominated the decade’s show rings while her son Paclamar Astronaut—dismissed as a $9,000 disappointment at sale—became the youngest Gold Medal sire in AI history with nearly 60,000 tested daughters. Through Astronaut came Hanoverhill Starbuck and Startmore Rudolph, bloodlines now threaded through virtually every high-genomic Holstein in North America. Milly died July 3, 1972, but her legacy is permanent: proof that a breeder who sees what others miss can reshape an entire breed with one well-placed gamble.
Continue the Story
- Hanoverhill Starbuck’s DNA Dynasty: The Holstein Legend Bridging 20th Century Breeding to Genomic Futures – Milly’s story doesn’t end at Paclamar. It walks into a Quebec AI stud where her great-grandson Starbuck—born from Astronaut’s daughter—became the bull whose DNA now flows through 83% of North American Holsteins. This is what happened next.
- Bell’s Paradox: The Worst Best Bull in Holstein History – If Milly proved that concentrated breeding could create a dynasty, Bell proved it could also create a disaster. This profile wrestles with the same tension John Snoddy understood instinctively: genetic greatness carries hidden costs. Essential context for anyone who loved the Sir Bess Ormsby Fobes discussion.
- Lovholm Holsteins: The Only Farm to Breed 2 World Dairy Expo Holstein Champions Milks 72 Cows in Tie-Stalls – Different era, same philosophy. Michael and Jessica Lovich are doing in 2025 what Snoddy did in 1954—trusting cow families over popular opinion, breeding for their barn instead of the catalog. Proof that the approach that built Milly still beats unlimited budgets, seventy years later.
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David Brown, like all of us, had his flaws. Endowed with remarkable skills as a breeder, showman, and promoter, he was often hailed as the finest cattleman of his era. Growing up on Browndale Farms in Paris, Ontario, he had towering expectations to meet. His father, R.F. Brown, was a luminary in the dairy world, winning the esteemed Curtis Clark Achievement Award in 1988 and the Klussendorf Trophy at the 1993 World Dairy Expo. As one of Canada’s most successful breeders, R.F. clinched Premier Breeder and Exhibitor honors at the World Dairy Expo and the Royal Winter Fair. His accolades included five Grand Champions at the Royal Winter Fair: Green Elms Echo Christina (1972 and dam of Browndale Commissioner), Vanlea Nugget Joyce (1974), Marfield Marquis Molly (1978), and Du-Ma-Ti Valiant Boots Jewel (1988). David certainly had big shoes to fill. And fill them he did. His list of accomplishments was extensive: He led Ontario’s top herd in production in 1991, bred two All-Canadian Breeder’s Herd groups, and produced the All-American Best Three Females in 1998. He was twice crowned Premier Breeder at the International Holstein Show and accumulated 92 awards in All-Canadian and All-American contests from 1986 through 2004. Yet, despite two auction sales in 1991 and 1996 aimed at reducing his debts, financial relief was elusive. Over time, his wife left him, his children moved away, and his prized cattle were sold off. Eventually, David relocated to Colombia, where he passed away. Views on Brown are mixed—some saw him as a charming inspiration, while others regarded him as a rule-bending showman or an irresponsible debtor. Nonetheless, his rapid ascent and remarkable achievements in his lifetime are indisputable. Many wealthy individuals have invested vast sums of money into the cattle industry, chasing the same recognition, only to leave empty-handed. What distinguished David Brown was his nearly mystical talent for preparing animals for the show ring and transforming them into champions.
Edward Young Morwick, a distinguished author, cattle breeder, and lawyer, was born in 1945 on the Holstein dairy farm owned by his father, Hugh G. Morwick. His early memories of his mother carrying him through the cow aisles profoundly shaped his trajectory. Although Edward pursued a career in law, excelling immediately by finishing second out of 306 in his first year, he harbored a deep-seated passion for journalism. This led to his later work chronicling Holstein’s cow history. His seminal work, “The Chosen Breed and The Holstein History,” stands as a cornerstone for those delving into the evolution of the North American Holstein breed. In it, he compellingly argues that the most influential bulls were those of the early historical period. (Read more: 




















”SHAKIRA STOOD OUT FROM THE REST FROM THE BEGINNING”


“SHAKIRA’S STAR TREK”















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Holstein Association USA is pleased to announce Bur-Wall Buckeye Gigi and Idee Shottle Lalia as 2013 Star of the Breed recipients.





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