If you’ve been in 4H long enough, you know our kids don’t just join a club — they join a lifestyle. A lifestyle that eats, breathes, sleeps… and poops. A lot. Unlike football or baseball, where the biggest crisis is forgetting cleats, our kids learn responsibility by caring for actual living creatures who have absolutely no respect for timing, sidewalks, or parade routes.
So when my son Jo got the chance to be a pooper scooper in the Prescott Fourth of July Parade, I thought, “Well… if any kid is prepared for this, it’s a 4H kid.” What I didn’t expect was that it would become a core memory for Jo, Johnny, and me — the kind you still laugh about when you’re old, grey, and still finding hay in your laundry.
Agriculture parents, 4H parents, FFA parents — we’re built different. We carry puppy pads for chicken crates, shovels for sidewalk emergencies, and antibacterial wipes for when the poop inevitably finds you. We don’t flinch. We adapt. We get the job done with a smile and a “Yep, that tracks.”
So when our Ash Fork Sunsets crew teamed up with Prescott’s 4H club, we didn’t just show up. We became THE POOPER SCOOPERS — and somehow, the most celebrated group in the entire parade.
Before the big day, Jo and I asked all the usual questions: “What do we bring?” “When do we be there?” “What’s it like?”
The answers were simple: Shovels. 8:30 a.m. And “It’s one of the funnest fundraisers we do.”
So there we were — Jo, Johnny, Mr. Boyd, the Prescott leader, and me — all packed into Mr. Boyd’s 4x4, shovels rattling in the back like we were heading into a very specific kind of battle. The rest of the kids were spread out along the parade route with other parents and volunteers, forming a full scale 4H poop response network. It was hot, crowded, loud, and full of horses, trucks, and floats. We took it seriously, because keeping kids safe in parade chaos is no joke.
But once the parade started? It was fast. It was fun. It was… a little stinky.
Our job was simple: stay between the horses and the group behind them, and scoop anything the horses “left behind.” And let me tell you — those horses were generous.
When we spotted our first pile, the kids stationed ahead of us launched into action like they were responding to a five alarm barn fire. They jumped forward with their shovels, scooped with absolute confidence, and then—
the crowd ERUPTED.
Not polite clapping. Not a few chuckles. No — these people stood up, clapped, hollered, and proudly yelled:
“YEAH POOPER SCOOPERS! THANK YOU!”
I nearly dropped my shovel. They were thrilled to see us. You could instantly tell who had been in 4H or raised a 4H kid — they were the loudest of all.
We scooped, dumped the shovels into the truck bed, hopped back in, and kept going. Around the square once… then again. Two full laps of fame. Two full laps of cheering. Two full laps of “Did we seriously just become parade celebrities for picking up poop?”
While waiting to start our second lap, I looked at these amazing kids — confident, smiling, dedicated, and proud of the job they were given. Whether they’re scooping poop or carrying chickens into your kitchen while you’re cooking dinner (and you don’t even blink at the sight of a live chicken lying flat on its back in your son’s hands), these kids shine.
And here’s the gushy part — because I can’t help it.
I love these 4H kids. I love their grit. I love their humor. I love their chaos. I love their hearts.
They work hard. They care deeply. They show up — for their animals, for their clubs, for each other. They learn responsibility, compassion, confidence, and how to laugh when a goat poops on their shoe. They grow into the kind of humans who make communities stronger.
And we parents? We make it happen. The next parade. The next fundraiser. The next chicken practice. The next 50 lb bag of feed that somehow disappears every two days.
Johnny and I got to scoop poop in the Fourth of July parade and watch our son shine. And let me tell you — it was absolutely worth waking up at the butt crack of dawn. Because at the end of the day, poop or no poop, this 4H life is magic. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.