A Cow Tale
John Rogers Howard
©
Copyright 2024 by John Rogers Howard
|
Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. |
By
the time I turned
almost eight, I had my first full time job milking the family cow.
Helping my mother with KP chores, mowing lawn, and shoveling out
winter snow storms, were routine chores shared with an older and
younger brother. Being responsible for the cow’s daily needs, I
took on a personal responsibility above the mundane expected
participation in family life.
With
the help of
Grandfather Smith and uncles from both sides of the family, my father
built a small barn using timbers and workable pieces repurposed from
an old, fallen-down, chicken coop - gifted by neighbors a quarter
mile down the road past the manure pile. Looking skyward as a
child, I saw men balanced on a ridge-pole and superstructure, passing
along wide boards - making happy noises, as they hammered at their
work.
Inside
the east wall
of the barn was a one car garage. It was enclosed by two large
doors hinged to open-out south. Beside them, a single door accessed
the milking parlor, pig pen, chicken coop, and hay-mow. This barn
had a few windows, but they were only installed along the south wall.
The west side of the building featured a huge door opening into the
hay storage area, and a smaller door opening into the chicken coop.
A
spacious, vintage
carriage-shed was attached to a section of our house close-off the
family kitchen. Occupying this drafty space was our cow, one large
mother pig, and a flock of chickens. When the barn was finished, Dad
lead the cow and pig over to their new lodgings. Upon corralling the
chickens into their deluxe quarters next to the hay-mow, family life
lost familiar sounds and mystic, warm aromas; soon thereafter, Dad
remolded this old shed into space for Mother’s twenty-year
kindergarten enterprise.
Our
cow was on loan
from Vermont cattle dealer, Great-uncle Aldace Walker Newton. She
was a mix of Jersey - Guernsey stock and gave plenty of rich,
wholesome milk for our family and pig.
When
I was nine, I
joined the 4-H Club. Doctor Burke had a big dairy farm close up the
hill north of us. His herd was a collection of prized, “blue
ribbon”, registered Jerseys. Dad proffered an arrangement
whereby Doctor Burke would give us a calf from his herd to raise as a
4-H project, and when we decided to retire her, she would be returned
to his herd. We named her Daphne Alrope.
Taking
care of a cow
requires morning and evening milking, making sure to squeeze the last
drops of milk from each teat, thereby
preventing
the
possibility of mastitis - a medical problem not good for mammary
glans. It also requires seven-day attention, not only to milking, but
also to feeding, watering, and cleaning details.
During
the summer
seasons, the hay-mow was filled with loose hay cut from our field. When
dry, it was forked onto a hay wagon by Dad, and wearing his
classy, over-the-shoulder, strapped undershirt, he would fork it off
the wagon into the barn. By 1950 hay bails had replaced the tedious
toil required to gather and process loose hay.
During
the days
through warmer seasons, we tethered the cow out in our pasture by
driving a tall, steel stake into the ground. A chain was attached to
it and the cow’s collar. Lugging a four gallon pail of water
out to her was good exercise, and it was surely appreciated by the
“stakie”.
Winter
seasons could
offer many varieties of challenge to cow and cow-hand. Leaving a
nice, warm house for a forty-yard walk over to the barn doesn’t
seem like too much to stress about. Dressed appropriately for the
weather conditions is normal and easily addressed. Getting into the
barn with milk-pale in hand was a cozy and warm expectation. A cow
puts out a good amount of animal heat, and water dishes inside the
barn rarely formed a skim of ice.
New
England winters
can start early and end late. They can be severe and brutal - and
they can be quite comfortable and pleasant. Worse case: the
forty-yard walk to the barn presents a ten foot snow drift up against
the barn doors. White outs and blizzards could hide the barn. My
plan “B” was to wade or maybe swim through the snow over
to the walk-through chicken coop which served as an inward passageway
to the cow. The chickens didn’t seem to mind much - some
clucking sleepy questions from their warm cubbies.
Once
inside the
warmish barn, it was a happy reunion with cow twitching her tail and
munching grain. I would warm-up against her flank, messaging her
udder to warm my chilly fingers before commencing hands-on work.
Returning to the house after milking, I would strain the milk through
cheese cloth into glass gallon jars, storing them in the kitchen
refrigerator.
Jersey
and Guernsey
milk ranks at the top of the Butter-fat Index. One gallon of their
milk can be topped with three or four inches of heavy cream. We were
fortunate to have a mother who loved to cook. With cream and butter
she created delicious chowders, pastries, creamed vegetables,
custards, pies, cookies, cakes and frostings - all regular offerings
on the breakfast, lunch, and dinner menu's.
Mother
not only
provided great weekday meals, washed family clothing, grocery
shopped, and controlled the family finances; but, she also owned and
managed her “Gatewood” Kindergarten. With the help of
two other teacher-helpers, the three ladies picked-up and dropped-off
sixteen four and five year old children - weekdays from 9:00 AM to
1:00 PM, and yearly scheduled with the public school calender.
One
school day in
late Spring, Daphne may have made a determined, or frightened lurch
of cow power, pulling the tethering stake over so that the chain
slipped off its anchor. Daphne was free. She wandered around the
property until Mother became aware of her presence in the back yard.
Mom told the children and helpers that she would be right back -
after getting control of the run-away cow and secure back in the
barn.
Sneaking
up on the
unsuspecting animal, now center stage in front of the big bay-window
into the kindergarten room, Mother grabbed the tethering chain and
began to pull the cow back toward the barn. The cow immediately
bolted, jerking Mom off her feet - pulling her, in the horizontal,
several yards over the back lawn. When she recovered and retreated
back to the classroom, she was greeted with excited, wild
appreciation from the kids, “Do it again, Mrs. Howard. Do it
again!”
John Rogers
Howard was born and brought-up in Lancaster, Massachusetts. He
attended Lancaster public schools and was a member of the 4-H Club
and Boy Scouts of America. He earned a bachelor’s degree in
fine arts, a master’s degree in education, and took advanced
university courses in public school administration. He is retired
and formerly worked as a public school teacher, tractor-trailer
driver and instructor, and owner of a beverage company. He is a US
Army veteran, member of the American Legion and Masonic Fraternity,
F&AM. He spent most of his life in New Hampshire and lives with
his wife in Maine and Florida.
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