As she puts the finishing touches on a life-size replica of a Holstein sculpted from over 400 pounds of dairy spread, Norma "Duffy" Lyon knows exactly which side her breed is buttered on. "I consider myself a dairy farmer's wife first," announces the 61-year-old Toledo, Iowa, housewife as she smoothes out a bump on the bogus beast's greasy "hide." "Butter cows are just something I do on the side." For the uninitiated (of whom there are plenty, judging from the incredulous throngs lining up to ogle Lyon's handiwork, currently on view through the window of a walk-in freezer at the Arizona State Fair's Agriculture building), a butter cow is almost exactly what it sounds like.
"Of course, she isn't all butter," explains Lyon, who spent two days last week sculpting butter over the cow's wood-and-chicken-wire framework. "She's on an armature because there's no way those thin little legs could hold up all that weight. She's hollow and she's still got 420 pounds on her." How now, yellow cow?
According to Lyon, the oleaginous art form dates back to the dawn of mechanical refrigeration, some 75 years ago, when every state fair worth its salt lick had an art-imitates-livestock display. Far rarer today, the cows rear their high-priced heads primarily at exhibitions in the eastern section of the country.
"I just sort of fell into this," shrugs the mother of nine. A "late bloomer" with no formal art training, she found herself sculpting till the cows come home after complaining about a pathetic dairy promotion at an Iowa fair in 1958.
"It was terrible--just atrocious!" says Lyon of her predecessor's work. "It wasn't even a good caricature of a cow. I guess the man they'd hired wasn't familiar with the builds of livestock like I was. I've got a degree in animal science." During the next year's fair, the seven-and-a-half-months pregnant sculptress found herself churning out the first of many butter beasts.
This Dali of the dairy case works four or five fairs around the country each season--and has for the past thirty years. In addition to eighty-odd head of cattle, she's also sculpted a butter Clydesdale and numerous other barnyard denizens.
Asked what happens to her creations after fairs fold for the season, the toast of the butter beat stands pat. "In the old days, I'm told, they used to let people come around with buckets and take it ®MD120¯ Col 1, Depth P54.02 I9.03 home," she explains. "These days, it's a different story, although I don't know why. The butter is refrigerated and my hands are clean." If a fair plans to repeat the exhibit, Lyon claims the butter can be frozen and recycled into new sculpture up to six years in a row.
As one of only a handful of sculptors still milking the butter-cow circuit, Lyon has appeared as a guest on TV shows ranging from To Tell the Truth to, more recently, Late Night With David Letterman. "There's still a few of us around, though," she says. "There's a man in Ohio, but he still makes the little dumpy Jersey cow with the horns--Jerseys aren't supposed to be little and dumpy anymore! On top of that, he doesn't even like to be watched, so he puts paper all over the window until he's done." Flashing a look that says, "Go figure," she adds, "Myself, I get so busy in here, I forget that anyone's out there." She turns her head to acknowledge the throng of spectators peering through the window as a warm smile spreads across her face. She's friendly, but visitors to her walk-in freezer are advised to leave their clever comments about Parkay floors at the door. "Margarine won't work," Duffy Lyon announces authoritatively. "It's like lard. It wants to stick to you instead of what you're trying to put it on."
Visitors to her freezer are advised to leave their clever comments about Parkay floors at the door.
