Down on the Farm Ch. 01

College is a big drain on the finances, so finding work was an absolute necessity. I'd transferred to this particular college because my folks were no longer paying my way. Several student loans, one scholarship, and a lot of luck had been required to gain admission. The bulk of costs were covered but my bank balance failed to meet the daily needs. Things like laundry, gasoline, dates (when I had any), clothes, and etc were not covered. I required work.

The student employment office was the first stop immediately after registration. Transfer students, along with incoming freshmen get slim pickings because the 'cream' jobs are snatched up by returning students. Entering the office, I stood in line behind 45 other 'would be' job seekers. I'd snagged a list of potential positions from a table at the entrance and was reading through it. Behind the counter and hanging crookedly on the wall, a blackboard with an identical list was showing the number of current openings. Six staff were assisting and the line progressively grew shorter. Understandably the numbers written in chalk, on the board were decreasing as students made their selection and signed up from the dwindling supply.

Thirty five minutes later I stood in front of the counter talking to a large woman who showed signs of fatigue, her friendly demeanor had grown thin. "Yeah, whada ya want?" she quipped.

I'd been observing the routine, so the list of currently open slots for custodian, library assistant, and yard work, each with 4 to 5 hours per week, would not put any jingling change in my pockets.

"Is this all you have?" I asked.

"All of the 'on campus' jobs. There's another list for openings in the community. We can't guarantee nothin' 'cause they choose who they want. Do you wanna see it?"

"Yeah, let me see what is on it."

She rummaged under a pile of tottering folders and emerged with a typed list in her chubby hands. I browsed the columns. Yard work for college staff, cleaning for elderly, and repairs to homes in the neighborhood. Not much for long term employment, which I wanted. Towards the bottom I located a single entry; a local farmer needed help with chores and cleaning out the barn. Sounded like pitching manure, however this was ongoing work. I applied. The woman would forward the paperwork to the folks, letting me know in a couple days. I returned to my room and promptly forgot all about it.

Returning from class, the next day, I pulled a note from my mailbox. This guy was interested in meeting me for an interview. Using the lobby phone, the numbers were punched in and I gave him a call. I couldn't tell much from his voice, but he appeared excited someone was interested in the job. We quickly arranged a meeting for later that afternoon and he gave directions to his place.

My parents taught us kids to face any task with honor, giving the best we had. I recall dad telling me, "There's no dishonor in digging a ditch, its just hard work." Living in the 'burbs' gave rise to earning spending money by raking fall leaves, summer marathons where I'd mow twenty lawns in a day, planting spring flowers, and shoveling snow after a 9 inch blizzard. Elderly neighbors were a joy, as I remember steaming cups of hot chocolate after clearing snow from their walks or icy glasses of lemonade on a hot august afternoon after putting the lawnmower in the garage. Mrs. Jacobson, a widow, three blocks down the street could hold my fascination while telling tales as a little girl on the farm. She would regal me with stories when she would churn the butter or running barefoot to the creek for a summer dip along with her cousins.

Mom and Dad kept us busy at home too. As a youngster, I never liked washing dishes, but looking back on those years, my conversations with mom during those times opened windows to her insights on raising a family of 4 growing boys. Dad taught us the difference between a left and right handed hammer, why not to use a screwdriver in opening a can of paint, and when to use an adjustable end wrench, instead of a socket or pair of pliers. Accomplishments received praise, mistakes used as a learning tool, disobedience merited swift punishment.

The next day, I hopped in my beat-up car and took the 5 mile trip out to this farm. I arrived and was met by a man coming from the barn. He was slender but strong and walked with a limp. His weathered face and work swollen hands were common among the farming community. Greeting me, he introduced himself as Howard. "Everyone calls be 'Bud' though. Are you the college student looking for work?"

"Yup, that's me. Mark's my name."

"Have you ever worked on a farm?"

"No, I haven't. But I'm not afraid of hard work, either."

As we talked, he was sizing me up and his questions were probes into my character. I gathered he accepted me at face value. Descriptions about the kind of work were voiced and most of the duties would be to 'muck out' the barn and keep the milking equipment sterilized. The herd of dairy cows was his main source of income and unannounced visits from the milk inspectors kept him on his toes. Cleanliness was imperative. Added to these tasks included general work around the farm; repairing fence, painting, and help with his crops. I quickly liked him and he took a shine to me.

"You're hired." He said. "Let me show you around the place. He offered me a pair of 'slip on' overshoes, which I gladly accepted and we traipsed across the barn lot between the milk cows. He called each one by name, occasionally stooped to check the udder of one or two. We stopped at the silo and he gave instructions on how he guestimated the amount to feed the herd each day. Reaching the barn, he showed the springing heifers which were about to drop their calves and three day old calves. One was a young bull which he planned to raise to put meat on their table, and the other two were heifers. Looking at them I could not tell much difference between the two, but he had already sized them up and one was slated to enter his herd and the other would be sold at the sale barn in a couple weeks.

The milking barn was our next stop. My experience was 'nil' and what I saw fascinated me. This was the spot that required daily cleaning and sterilizing equipment. The bulk tank was huge and nearly full. He flipped a lever, stirring the contents, then dipped a tin cup in and offered me a drink. "Wow, this is delicious."

"The butter fat content is higher than what is purchased in stores. My cows produce close to 4.5% and commercial whole milk contains 3.5%. It's the fat content that makes money and I've been able to maintain a high average, that difference keeps me in the business."

"Come on; let me introduce you to the rest of the family." He led me up to the house where we kicked off our boots. His wife, Edith, was in the kitchen. She had a pleasing personality, and wiped her hands on her apron before taking my hand. A quick holler into the back of the house brought their three girls; who were probably a handful. Becky was 12 slim with brown hair, Samantha 14 had reddish hair and a bit shorter than the others, and Patricia (Trish) 16 had dark blond hair and dressed in coveralls, flannel shirt and work boots. I said 'Hi' and Becky and Sam giggled. Trish extended her hand which I politely shook.

Bud and I sat at the kitchen table, Edith joined. The girls busied themselves with other responsibilities; however they never strayed far. I withdrew a paper from my pocked with my class schedule and passed it across to Bud. He hoped I could help every afternoon and on the weekends. The unusual class schedule prevented this. The weekends were no problem; it was my lab classes on Tuesday and Thursday which precluded working till after 4 pm. In dairying the farmer is tied to the business. He doesn't miss a milking time, ever. Regardless of sickness or injury, he MUST always milk the cows; vacations were never taken. Should things be worked out, Bud wanted me to know the cows, his routine, and rules. Perhaps he and the family could take a break. "Can you start working today?" he asked.

"I didn't come dressed to work, but my time is free." I ventured.

"There is a pair of coveralls on the porch, I've got an extra shirt lying around here some where, and I know we can find a jacket for you. Trish?"

"Yeah, Dad?" she spoke coming around the corner.

"Once Mark gets changed, take him and show him how to throw down the silage, drop down the grain, and feed three bales to the springers. I noticed that Amy was not among the herd this afternoon. If you can't find her, take ol' Ginger and ride out to the quarter pasture. See if she got through the fence and into the corn. If she has and she bloats, that will cut into production this week."

Edith handed me a shirt and I easily slipped into it. The coveralls were retrieved from the porch and I stepped into them, buttoning them up. I slipped into the overshoes and we headed out the door.

"Have you worked on a farm before?" Trish asked.

"No, I've heard stories from a neighbor about when she was a small girl. Someone will have to show me what to do around here."

"Come on," she said. "We'll get the silage down first."

We walked through a shed and out into the holding pen, through the swing gate, and up the silo. I followed and slid through the 19th door. We stood atop the silage, cut from the past year. There were two silage forks, Trish grabbed one and I took the other. These tools had fifteen tines about an inch and a half apart.

"There are 73 milk cows and we give each, two forks of silage." She showed me the amount then tossed it down the shoot. I joined in and together we counted 146 scoops. "As the level of silage drops over the next few weeks, we will have to open a lower door along the side." She explained.

Moving down the ladder, we headed towards the milking parlor. Here she showed me the grain bin, up in the ceiling. We scooped the grain into the hopper till it was full. She explained this was enough feed to carry through a day and a half. Next the barn, she grabbed three hay bales, tossed them like a pro, popped the twine and pitched the hay into the roughage rack for the springing heifers below. They attacked it with relish.

With ease, she jumped from the mow, to the floor below and scampered off to inspect the herd, looking for Amy. I descended the wood ladder and caught up within a couple minutes. She had straddled the fence and was looking over the cows. I joined her and she explained, "Amy has a white blaze down her nose which turns to the right. Also she has what looks like an exploding star on her left hip."

That made as much sense to me as saying each cow had polka dots. They all looked the same to me. "She's not here," Trish said. "Let's get Ginger."

Dropping lightly to the ground, she is takes off at a run to the other side of the barn. Giving a shrill whistle, I spy their horse trot down the lane towards us. In a minute she lopes up to us and Trish grabs the halter, leading her into the barn.

"Do you know how to put on a saddle?" she asks me.

"I think so. Went to a camp my last year in high school and we went riding every day. Had to saddle and care for the horses."

"Let's see you do it. There's the saddle and there's the bridle."

I found the hand brush giving Ginger a quick once-over. The blanket was beside the saddle and I snatched it, shaking the dust out before positioning it on her back. Next the saddle. I tossed the stirrups and cinch over the horn, picked up the saddle and placed it on Ginger's back. Straightening it, I flipped the cinch and right stirrup off the horn, reached under for the cinch, bringing it up on the left side. The strap was quickly brought down, through the metal ring, and back through the top ring. At this point I lifted the strap to remove all the slack. Then giving a mighty heave, I pulled the cinch tight. I repeated this one more time to ensure adequate tightness. The strap was looped around the front, up behind the top ring, through the ring, and down inside the loop. The stirrup is dropped into place and I turn to face Trish.

"Not bad," she says. "But Ginger's not tied. You should have put the bridle on first."

"Oops." I said. I grabbed Ginger's halter and then put the bridle on, over it. The bit slid between the horse's teeth, as the strap looped back over her ears and the reigns draped back to the horn. She was led back outside where I waited for instructions.

Trish grabbed the horn, stepped into the stirrup and smoothly was in the saddle. "Up behind me." She said. It took a minute but soon I was seated at the rear. "Hang on to me." She instructed. I put my hands around her waist and held on as we took off at a fast trot down the lane. Her hair was blowing back in my face and tickling my nose. After a few seconds I placed my face over her left shoulder.

"Amy will likely be over in that corner of the pasture." She pointed and directed Ginger's head in that direction. Five minutes later we spy Amy. She is still in the pasture but seems caught up in the underbrush. Riding up, I dismount and clear out several branches, opening a break for Amy to get out. Once free, she walks toward the barn.

"Dad usually cleans out this brush once a year. Looks like it hasn't been done yet. Before we head back to the house, let's check the fencing along the corn. Need to make sure no problems are along the row.

I hop aboard Ginger again and we slowly walk along the fence. I dismount a couple times to check the wire is fastened to the post before remounting Ginger, behind Trish. In twenty minutes we arrive back at the barn. Trish leads Ginger into the barn, "I'll strip and brush Ginger down. You go help Dad, he's about half way through the milking. Let him know the brush needs cut back."

I find Bud and explain what we had found. Thanking me he gave instructions on what to do next. Once each cow had been milked, we gather the machines and he shows how to wash, rinse, and sterilize everything. Mentally I take notes on what procedures he used, the order of things, and amounts of soap. This is so completely new, it is evident additional instructions will be required.

Sensing my uncertainty, he turns toward me. "Think you can do this on your own tomorrow evening? I wanted to take the family into town for a night out." Seeing the shocked look on my face he laughed. "It's a lot to remember, I know. I'm messing with you. You'll do fine and before long all of this will be second nature to you."

"Bud, I've never worked on a farm before. To be honest, I'm lost. This is all new to me."

He laughed out loud. "I didn't hire you for what you knew. You were hired because I figured you would work hard. If you apply yourself, you will learn. Give yourself time. It'll come."

"Does Trish help you every evening?"

He shook his head. "The girls rotate. Tomorrow I think its Sam, then Becky. That way it gives them a break. Edith knows the routine too. This is a family business; everyone is expected to pull their weight."

My head is swimming from all this and I share as much with Bud.

"Give it time; you'll get the hang of it."

During the first few weeks, I learned and helped as best I could. As the months progressed I came to know the name of each cow, their temperaments, how to identify them, and every step in milking. I reported for work daily, would meet with Bud to discuss instructions and what he wanted me to do. Something was always changing. For example he might change the type of feed to be used. The grain mix may have different minerals added; the roughage could be changed from silage to hay. Maybe a particular cow developed mastitis, so special attention and medication would be given. These talks with Bud would last maybe half an hour. Occasionally he'd gone to town so I'd meet and talk with Edith. I came to enjoy farm life.

The Christmas holidays came and went. I traveled home to 'fight' with my brothers, like most good siblings. Being the oldest gave me the advantage, until all three would gang up against me.

The second semester started mid January and I returned to working for Bud. By this time I did understand the work. Bud was right about that. This was a family operation, Bud supplied the brains and Edith provided the heart. Trish was a hard worker and she took after her mom. The two of them were a lot a like. Sam (Samantha) liked farm work, she was a tomboy and took after her dad. However, she also had an interest in drama and the stage. Becky was the smart one. Even though history gave her problems, she was acing her science and math. She would be going to college.

Imperceptibly, my relationship changed with Bud and the family. The first few months, I was a 'hired hand'. But slowly I became accepted as a member of the family. I can't say for certain when this change took place, as I look back, probably it was when Trish asked me to stay for supper. Normally at the end of a work day, I would head back to the dorm and catch the tail end of the chow line. One evening in January, Trish and I were finishing up with sterilizing the equipment in the milk house. I was getting into my car when she asked, "Why don't you stay for supper."

I frowned. "Isn't that something your dad or mom would have to ask?" I questioned.

"Wait here a minute, I'll be right back."

True to her word she returned in a flash and said her mom agreed, I could stay and eat with them, if I wanted. "Can you stay, please?" she asked again.

I had nothing planned for that evening and all my studying was caught up. So I agreed.

From that point on, it was a regular request. Even this changed, by the end of February they didn't ask, it was assumed. The only times I ate supper at the school cafeteria was when the family were away from home.

My time working gave me opportunity to know the family well. The girls would always pester me. Becky and Sam would show me projects they were doing for school. A couple times they cornered me into a tickling match, which I always lost, of course. Trish asked about college life and my activities there. She was more reserved than the younger two but was never far away.

The evening meal was always enjoyable. Bud, Edith and the girls would talk about the days events and plans for the next day. If I didn't need to return to the dorm right away I sometimes helped Edith wash the dishes. She loved to talk about Bud and the girls. I shared about school and my family back home. The girls would be doing homework at the table listening to us talk. After the dishes were put away, they could pester me into helping them study. Becky would need help with history, Sam had trouble with science, and Trish couldn't grasp algebra.

One evening as I helped with their homework, Becky asked, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, I've never had the time. Too busy farming." I replied. Then seeing all three looking at me, I add, "But I do know three cute ones I might be interested in." Becky and Sam giggled while Trish smiled. These were good times.

With Spring came field work and planting crops. "You ever driven a tractor?" Bud asked one day.

"Only around here. Whenever you've asked me."

"Think you can work the fields?"

"Sure, I guess." I hesitated. "You'll have to show me how." I volunteered.

"That 85 acres over there," He said, pointing, "Needs plowed. That's where I'll plant the corn this year. Can you stick around during your 'spring break'? You'll learn some new stuff, besides caring for the dairy herd."

"I'm game for it. Like I said, you're going to have to show me."

"No problem. It's really pretty easy. Just keep your eyes sighted in a straight line and watch the equipment."

That day he and I adjusted the wheel settings on the tractor, pulled the plow out from the machine shed, and greased everything well. He explained to me the differences in plows. He had a '4 bottom' plow and the moldboards were 14 inches apart. The topsoil was deep in these parts, 8 inches and he liked to plow that depth. Right now the ground was too wet to till, but he figured, if the rains hold off, like the forecast said, next week the soil would be about right. One end of the field is higher ground and drains well, so he took me out and we put that plow into the ground. Bud showed me how to pick a distant point across the field and aim the tractor for that spot. He taught me about the difference between back furrows and dead furrows. How to adjust the depth, when to turn at the end of the furrow, not to turn too short, and to mind the hydraulics.