This is an account of some activities dredged up from memories of my teen years on our small dairy farm a few miles east of Edmonton Alberta. Although coming-of-age teenage years have physical, social, and psychological growth components, it is the physical initiation into more farm responsibility that is the focus of this blog.
Although Dad did introduce labour-saving improvements during my teen years, the accounts
that follow begin with the pre-mechanized time of my early teens. In most
farm work, brother Dick and I were partners, so we are both involved in much of what I relate. Dad usually worked alongside us, directing, mentoring,
and leading by example.
Our farm
activities are described in four parts: work in and around the barn; other farmyard
activities; field work; and post mechanization changes. Each part is the focus of a separate blog.
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| The Purebred Holstein Herd beside the Old Barn |
George has
been our hired man since I started school. He is a no-nonsense, kind-hearted,
hard-working WWI veteran who feels to me like a member of our family. But what
sets him apart is that the few steps he takes between the top of the stairs and
his nearby mealtime chair is his only access to the main floor of the house.
This is the way it is with our hired men; they are confined to an allocated
basement area with a curtained sleeping area, washstand, and wide-open shower.
I will miss George and his good humour and friendly teasing. If Dick and I are still ensconced in our cozy basement-room bed when he comes in from the morning milking, we risk having him grab each of us by the ankle and drag us onto the cold floor.
But I am feeling a little uneasy about the news of George’s departure. Can Dick and I really do all the work he was doing? How much of my savoured free time will I lose? However, I am resigned to my fate, and even feel a bit more grown up because of a larger role in the farm operation.
The setting for this role is described below.
Farmyard Activities – The Barn
The Barn is the hub of barnyard activity. It is a small (compared to neighbouring dairy farms) loftless structure housing a twelve-stanchion cow section and a four-stall horse stable. There are also two calf pens, one for the two or three heifers being kept as herd replacements, and one for a couple of small calves.
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| The Barn in its later years |
The cow barn
is the site of the final step in the conversion of field crops into the milk that is traded for the funds that must sustain two essential needs: family livelihood, and the farm operation. Although I never hear it, I imagine the allocation between them requires serious discussion between Mom and Dad.
In summer the cows are only in their stalls for milking and to consume a small helping of oat chop spiked with some mineral supplements to maintain both their health and milk production. Milking time is 6:30, both AM and PM. Dick or I will call them to the barn (Come Boss, Come Boss) in our loudest voice. If they are too intent on grazing, or too far away to hear, I have the carefree task of heading out across the meadow to get them, while Dick doles out chop into their mangers. In the evening they could be anywhere in the West Field between the barnyard and the “Far Corner”, half a mile away. And of course, they like the Far Corner during a rainstorm because of the tree shelter there! In that event I face the drizzle and, wearing Dad's soon-to-be-soaked old cloth raincoat, head out in their direction.
After the
evening milking, they are directed into the Front Field, with its quarter-mile
limit, to save us getting up so early in morning to fetch them. Besides, if the
wind is right, they can hear our calls. If they ignore our shouted invitation,
Prince, our border collie helps herd them in, zigzagging behind them and
nipping the hind leg of any that dare to stop to grab a quick mouthful of
grass. Prince is excited by all the farm animals. When I say, “Let’s get the
cows” he speeds off to get them. When I say, “Let’s get the horses”, he’s off
in their direction, not to get them, because they ignore him, but just to get
excited by their movement.
Sometimes
the cows are all the barnyard, just waiting to be milked, depriving me of a
joyful carefree stroll (in fine weather). Blue skies, gently rolling knolls of
green, and the bubbling notes of the meadowlark create a feeling of absolute
bliss for me, and maybe for Prince too, during this happy chore.
The cows
enter the barn in the order of their herd status, the dominant one first and
the most timid last. They know their stalls and head straight for them - except
when an unprincipled early entrant grabs a mouthful of chop from the manger of
her tardier stanchion-mate before she enters. Dick and I go from stall to stall
fastening a small chain around their necks. It slides on a vertical bar so that
they are comfortable both standing and lying down.
Each cow is
named. There is Daisy and Jane and Two-Spot and Lucy and all the others. Lucy
is special because she is a registered purebred Holstein. Her surname is the
farm name of Wynthorn, derived from Mom’s first name Winnifred, and the “thorn”
from Haythorne, and her middle name is Daleford, from her sire’s lineage. She is
the mother of Laura and Linda, the two other purebreds, all models of body
confirmation and milk production excellence. However, they all possess one less
desirable genome – their teats have a high resistance to the flow of milk. I
try to avoid having to milk more than one of them.
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| Leila, a descendent of Linda, beside the new barn |
A milking
machine is still just a hope when I am fourteen, so we milk by hand. The teats
and lower udder are wiped clean and the obliging bovine “lets her milk down”
(relaxes any flow restraint) in preparation for the extraction. During his
first visit to farm, Jack, an agriculturally ignorant friend of city cousin
Bob, watches this procedure and asks, “Do they like that?”. An odd question I
think, as I naively answer, “Well, they don’t seem to mind”.
Bob’s city
friends bring both amusement and embarrassment. On his first visit to the barn
and viewing Daisy’s large pendulous udder Stuart exclaims, “Wow, look at the
nuts on that one!”.
On one of
Jack and Bob’s visits, I boast I can swing a pail with a couple of quarts of
milk in a full circle over my head and not spill a drop. Swinging it in bigger
and bigger arcs I finally go for the full orbit. My swaggering pride blinds me
to the fact that I am standing directly beneath the steel bar that anchors the
sides of the barn in place. Of course, the pail stops at its highest point and
drenches my head with warm milk. It is a riot for everyone except ego-deflated
me.
At the start
of milking, I select a cow that has most recently calved, as it is starting to
drip milk in anticipation of being milked. Balancing on my little three-legged
stool, with my head tucked against her flank and the 2½ gallon tinned pail
squeezed between my knees, I grasp the two front teats to start, producing two
alternating streams of milk. Gently at first because her teats may be sore
enough to trigger a quick kick that could knock me off my stool and sending the
milk pail flying. Some cows are skilled at a less extreme method of showing
their discomfort: whipping the side of the milker’s face with the coarse hairy
end of their tail. My countermeasure is
to tuck the offending tail under my cap to hold it against their flank.
New calves
only get to nurse from their mother for a day or so before we teach them to
drink out of a bucket. To do this, I let them suck on two of my fingers and
then submerge my hand in the half-pail of warm milk. However, because my
fingers are below the surface, the calf’s nose is too. Although it is getting
milk between my fingers there is considerable snorting and bubble blowing. After
a few days of repeating this procedure I withdraw my fingers and the calf
continues to drink, eventually avoiding nose submersion.
Another task
with new-born heifer calves is to apply caustic soda to the horn bumps on top
of their heads to stop the growth of horns. This is to prevent them from
possibly injuring each other later in life. Male calves are sold immediately to
farmers who raise them for veal or beef.
Hand milkers
use one of two methods of milking: wet or dry. Wet milking is accomplished by
squirting milk to moisten the thumb and forefinger, grasping the top of the
teat between them, and then sliding them down to express the milk. Dry milking
begins with wrapping the thumb and forefinger tightly around the top of the
teat, and then squeezing the other fingers in sequence down the teat to create
a kind of peristaltic action. Hired man George liked to wet milk, but Dad
insists that Dick and I dry milk, I think because it is more sanitary.
On finishing
a cow, we carry her milk to the nearby milk house and pour it through a
strainer funnel into an 8-gallon milk can used for shipping it to the dairy.
Two cans are partly filled each milking, with three or sometimes four cans
ready for the milk truck’s arrival at about 8:15 each morning, no matter what
the weather. I am impressed by driver Bert’s strength as he carries two
90-pound cans, one in each hand, and deftly swings them, one at a time, up onto
the four-foot-high deck of his truck.
Of the
twelve cows in the barn, two are “dry”, that is, they are no longer asked to
produce milk because they will be calving or “coming fresh” within the next two
months. Each cow produces a calf every 12-14 months. Their gestation period of
283 days means that they are pregnant for most of the time they are producing
milk, necessitating the need for mineral supplements to maintain both milk
production and good health.
On average
it takes fifteen minutes to milk a cow, so Dick and I are done in just over an
hour. Dad often helps, both to lighten our load and keep order. His presence
suspends our usual diversions like squirting milk at each other or the barn cat mewing
in the aisle.
A satisfied
feeling accompanies our untying the cows and turning them back to the field.
The next job is scrubbing the milk pails and strainer in the milk house wash
tubs. When done, about an hour and a half after starting, we head for the house
to change and wash up for breakfast if it’s morning, and to freedom after a
day’s work if it’s evening. Mornings, we bring the daily milk supply tom the house
in a two-quart beige enamel kettle.
Winter
changes everything. It’s dark and twenty below (about -30C) as I tread the
squeaky snow-packed path toward the anticipated warmth of the cow barn. I swing
open the heavy four-foot door and enter in a cloud of fog, as warm moist air
meets cold. The combined odors of hay, straw, cow, and manure might offend the
nose of a city slicker, but to me they are an essential part of the welcoming
warmth. Flicking on the light brings a chorus of soft moos conveying requests
to be milked and fed. Most cows are lying on their packed-straw beds, but soon
get to their feet and immediately expel body waste accumulated during the
night. Body heat keeps the barn well above freezing, and the inch or so of
frost on the multipaned windows offers a bit more insulation.
Since the
barn has no hayloft, hay is stored in the hay yard beside the barn. During the
summer we had built half a dozen ten-foot-high stacks resembling huge loaves of
bread. At feeding time hay is peeled off one or two of these stacks, thrown to
the snowy ground, and carried with a three-tined hayfork through the smaller
side door into the barn. After the morning milking each cow is rewarded with a
small forkful of alfalfa, brome, or timothy hay, or often a field mixture of
all three.
Winter
requires two other barn chore times besides milking: the 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM
feeding and watering. On school days Dad does them in the morning while Dick
and I are responsible for them in the afternoon when we get home from school.
While the herd is out taking their turns at the water trough, any uneaten hay
is forked out of their mangers and spread on the snow in the barnyard for the
horses and sheep to finish picking over. Then each manger is stocked with oat
chop and minerals in proportion to their current milk production, i.e., a 25
quart-per-day cow would get more that one producing less. We also replenish
their oat-straw bedding to maintain their comfortable beds.
Back in
their stalls, and after having finished their oat chop, I give each a generous
forkful of hay to munch on. There is no alleyway in front of the mangers, as
there is in bigger barns, so I must squeeze between their bellies from behind
with my fork-load of hay – not always an easy task. Afternoon chores are simply
a repeat of those in the morning.
There is one
more important and less pleasant task – cleaning the barn. We don’t yet have a
manure spreader (the only implement the manufacturer won’t stand behind) but
instead use a stone-boat. It is a 5’x7’ plank platform on two skids. It gets
its name from its use to remove stones from a field without having to lift them
more than a few inches. It is parked just far enough from the barn door so that
cows can get past it. Every second day we clean out the manure from the gutter
behind the cows. It is a soupy mixture of feces, urine, and straw that has
fallen in from their bedding. The tools we use are a five-tined manure fork[1]
and a scoop-shovel. The stone-boat is loaded by building a wall of forked
manure around the perimeter and filling the center with scoops of brown liquid.
The calf pens
are only cleaned out in the spring. We regularly add straw to keep them clean
all winter. A foot or more of manure is laboriously removed, layer by layer,
come spring, and spread on the field in the same manner as the cow manure
described below.
The
stone-boat is now loaded with manure, but my job is only half done. The next
task is spreading the manure on a field
most in need of fertilizer. In very cold weather this job can’t be put off for
a day or the load will freeze solid.
Molly and
Dolly, the aging white Percheron mares are called on to pull the load to the
field. I interrupt their munching and lounging at the straw pile beside the
granary and escort them into the horse barn. After brushing off any snow from
their backs, I slide their padded leather breast collars up over theirs necks
and fasten them at the top. Then, seizing the cold-stiff harness from the wall
pegs behind them, I throw it over their backs. The harness consists of
brass-nob-topped hames[2],
back and belly straps, and traces that fasten to the doubletree attached to any
load being pulled. The hames are buckled into place, the belly strap fastened,
and the traces placed over their backs. Molly and Dolly have been very patient
so far but show some resistance to having the freezing metal bit of the bridle
shoved into their mouth. Warming it a bit in my bare hands makes no difference.
Eventually they open their teeth and admit the freezing bar so that I can flip
the bridle over their ears and strap it on. There is very little heat in this
part of the barn, so on the coldest days I really must steel myself for the
task. The life lesson her for me is that, regardless of discomfort or
unpleasantness, one simply does what must be done.
The rest is
easer. I lead Molly and Dolly outside, stand them side by side, go back and
grab the long leather reins from the barn pegs. I thread them through loops on
the hames and clip them to the bit rings on the bridles. Now they are a team
that I can drive to the stone-boat, take the traces from their backs, and hook
them to the doubletree attached by a clevis to the stone-boat. Now I say “let’s
go” and make a clicking sound in my cheek and in response Molly and Dolly lean
forward, and with a slight jerk move the load off its frozen base.
As we glide
over the snow toward the field being fertilized, there is no place for me to
ride. I snow-stumble along behind, assisted by the pull of the reins. Using the
manure fork, I spread the load as evenly and thinly on the snow as I can before
going back the barn to drop off the stone-boat, unhitch, unharness, and reward
Molly and Dolly with a forkful of hay.
Part Two of
the blog - The Other Farmyard Buildings - describes activities in the other farmyard buildings.
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