Chapter Eight --- "The Days of Summer"

Day followed night, and night followed day.  Spring turned into summer, and along with it, the heat and humidity of the Southern Ohio Valley. The weather was similar to our home in northern Ohio, but on the average about ten degrees warmer year around. I began noticing that the hot days were taking a little more out of me than the cooler days of spring. Working outside under the blazing sun taught me a new lesson in appreciation for the farmers and laborers who make their living outside in all kinds of weather extremes.  I wondered if I’d ever get used to it.

It was Matt who shared a little tidbit of wisdom with me one day.

“It sure is hot, but if you manage your work right, you can survive it a lot better.”

He went on to explain.

“We have to bale the hay in the afternoon when it’s dry -- there’s just no gittin’ around it.  But we don’t have to unload it ‘til the morning when it’s cool.”

That made sense to me.  I liked the way he thought.

Maybe it was the heat, or the humidity, or quite possibly the ongoing rigor of farm life.  I felt strong and healthy, but my body just never seemed to get enough sleep.  For several weeks now it had become my practice to catch a little nap after breakfast.  As always, my delicious country breakfast left me with an enormous feeling of satisfaction, but coupled with it, an irresistible desire to sleep.  I’d get up from the table, send out a good belch of appreciation, and set the stove timer for fifteen minutes.  Right around the corner in the living room, I’d drop into our old recliner and kick back for a quick snooze.  The early morning rising and work at the parlor, followed by a big meal, left me with the ability to fall asleep immediately.

The only problem with getting a decent nap though were the pesky flies.  The days of summer had brought with them a proliferation of flies like I had never imagined.  The ceiling of the old house became peppered liberally with little black creatures.  Perhaps it was the smell of the barn, coupled with the airy old house, but they found my body an interesting place to land.  I no sooner laid down, than they would descend in glee upon my weary body.  I suppose they found it entertaining to crawl up my arms and across my face, and do their little fly gymnastics on my cheeks.   And I probably could have tolerated a little of this, but they continually insisted on landing directly on the tip of my nose.  It was sad to spoil all their fun, but I had to find a solution.  An old sheet was the perfect answer.  I draped it over my body, and ignoring the fact that I now looked like a corpse, fell fast asleep.  Ah, sweet dreams.  Those little power naps were a life-saver, and when the stove buzzer yanked me from my dreams a few minutes later, I was ready to roll.

Since cows don’t take weekends off, we couldn’t either.  The seven-day-a-week routine had turned me into a real farmer of sorts.  To my complete surprise, I had learned to know every cow.  In fact, I could look at any small part of them and know.  It didn’t matter which end, I knew them all by their individual number.  They, in turn, had learned to know and trust me too.  It was fun to relate to these big clumsy critters, and to be able to see the beauty in them. They weren’t just cows anymore.  Each one had its own personality.  Some were almost affectionate.  Others were timid and shy.  Some were fat, and some lean.  Some were always clean, and others habitually laid in the muck and were filthy. I thought I knew them well, but I still had a lot to learn.

Jim would come around to the parlor often enough to teach me some of the finer points of dairying.  He took me to the loft one day following the morning milking.

“I want ya see the cows from up here.”  He said.

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at until we walked over to the edge of the loft where we could look down on the backs of the cows.  They were lined up side by side, eating the silage and hay in the feed bunk.

“A good cow should be wedge-shaped from this point of view.  See number 70?”

She was right below us.

“She’s too fat, and her shoulders are blocky.  You want nice smooth lines from front to back.  There! Number 34.  That’s a good cow.  See what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.”  This was a new concept for me.  I thought this business was only about milk production.  The cows didn’t have to be perfect specimens to give milk.  But Jim went on to explain.

“A cow that’s built right will last longer, and send its genes into the next generation.”

There were also times when Jim worked with me in the parlor, relieving for Lisa, or filling in for her on her weekend off.  These were moments when I learned the finer points of legs and udders.

“See that ‘milk’ vein?”  Jim pointed to the large vein on the bottom of the cow’s belly, right under the skin.  It snaked from her chest to the front of her udder, curving randomly, about one inch in diameter.

“A good producer will always have a real large milk vein.”

I saw what he meant.  It hadn’t occurred to me how important this might be.  But in the days following I began noticing the veins, and they almost became to me a thing of beauty.

Then we talked about how the udders were “hung”.

“A good cow will have a strong ‘strap’ holding her udder up.  See number 81 there – how broken down she is?”

“Yeah,” I stared at an udder that hung way low in the back quarters.

“She doesn’t have a good strap.”  He went on to explain.  “The median suspensory strap that runs under the center of the udder from front to back is really important.  You can milk a cow for more years if she’s got a good strap.  Her udder will last a lot longer.”

Then we moved to the legs.

“You want nice straight legs like that one. What’s her number?”

A quick glance told me. “58.”

“She’s got the perfect legs.  Her feet will last a lot longer.  See how her hocks are almost straight.  And her legs are spaced just right.  She must have nice broad hips.”

My head was trying to contain all these details. I enjoyed these days of education.  It was obvious Jim had a special place in his heart for the cows.  He no longer handled them often enough to know them individually, but he still knew how to judge a good cow when he saw one.

A wagon load of hay, ready to send into the loft.

It must have been the end of June, or maybe July when Matt came around to the parlor just as Lisa and I were finishing the milking.  As always, my stomach had worked itself into a frenzy of internal growlings and hunger pangs.  My heart sunk when Matt spoke.

“Hey Bubby, s’pose we can unload the hay before breakfast?  It’s turning into a scorcher. I’d like to get it done early.”

“Sure, Matt,” I spoke with an enthusiasm that I did not feel.

“Good, I’ll go get a load in.”  Matt stepped out the door, as I walked to the feedlot to close the gate on the cows.  We didn’t need them wandering around the wagon, or worse, out into the yard.  My body was begging for food, and it would be tough to unload two large wagons before breakfast.  But if Matt could do it, the greenhorn-flatlander could too.  I wasn’t about to show my weakness.

Matt pulled the first load into the feedlot and up to the barn where we’d drop the bales onto a conveyor that would carry them into the loft.  This was usually a job for three people.  One person on the wagon and two in the loft worked just right, because the guys stacking the hay up there had a lot further to walk.

I glanced around hopefully. “Anyone else coming?”

“Sorry I couldn’t round up any more help,”  Matt explained. “I’ll go up there.  Don’t worry, I can stay ahead of ya.”  He grinned and shot a string of tobacco juice onto the cement.

“No Matt, I can go up there.”

“Nah, you’ll never keep up with me.  I’ll go. Jim’s gonna stop around after a while.  If we're not done, he’ll give us a hand.”

“Okay.”

I figured there was no use arguing.  Matt was not one to shove the hard labor on to his helper.  He was a fair man who had become more of a friend to me than an employer.   I knew for a fact that neither of us really wanted to go up there. The hayloft was the first place to heat up, and with no air moving, it could get stifling.

We turned on the conveyor, and Matt reached the loft just as the first bale hit the floor.

“By jiminy,” I muttered to myself, “we’re gonna find out if he can keep up.”  I grinned at the thought.  I loved working with this good-natured farmer.  His intelligence and keen wit were always surprisingly refreshing.  And his competitive nature brought out the best in both of us.  I, being the new guy, had something to prove.  Matt was not going to outdo me if I could help it.

I started dropping the bales onto the conveyor as rapidly as it could move them, and saw glimpses of Matt in the loft, grabbing and pitching as hard as he could go.  There was no way he was going to keep up with me.  The bales were beginning to pile up under the conveyor when Matt appeared at the loft door.

“Git up here and help me stack em,” he panted heavily.

“Sure.” I felt a twinge of guilt for working him like that, but no doubt about it, he would do the same for me another day.  I climbed the ladder to the loft and we drug the bales to the back and stacked them neatly.

“Alright Bubby, git back down there.”

“No, I’ll take a turn up here.”

“No, I said git back down there!   I’m just gonna toss the bales to the side.  We’ll stack ‘em later.”

“Alright.”

I crawled down the ladder and back onto the wagon.  It was about half unloaded, and I would have further to carry each bale now.  He might just keep up.  I’d have to move faster.

I was working my way rapidly back through the load when Jim showed up.

“Mornin’ Dave.”

“Mornin’ Jim,”  I said, as I dropped a bale onto the conveyor.

Jim had a concerned look on his face; “Better get some of those bales off the top layers, Dave.  Looks like that wagon could go over backward.”

I turned to face him from my position at the front.  I could understand a single axle trailer needed to be unloaded evenly, but a wagon?

“Ya have a lot of weight behind the rear axle Dave,” Jim explained patiently, “I saw a wagon go over backward like that once.”

“Okay, I’ll get some hay off the top.”  His fears were unfounded, but I loved old Jim, and figured I should humor him.

I took three steps towards the bales when I felt myself rising.  I couldn’t believe it was happening!  I leaped to the ground just in time to see the wagon rear high into the air.  The heavy bales were too much for the rack on the back, and it snapped, sending the hay tumbling to the ground.  I stood in shock and winced heavily as the wagon slammed back to the ground - the hay now scattered behind it.

I opened my mouth, wanting to apologize, but just stood there speechless – feeling about two feet tall, with my jaw on my chest.  Jim spoke first.

“It’s alright Dave, we can fix it.”  He gave me a sympathetic smile and patted my shoulder.  “Looks like I got here one bale too late.”

One bale too late.