Dairy Cows and Coal Oil Lanterns

 Few things are the same as they used to be. People have lost so much of their resiliency in this age of modern convenience and instant gratification. The ice storm we experienced this year sure brought that into clear focus with its associated power outages.

 Back on the farm, sometimes winter could be a little rough. We had it good in the house with forced air oil heat. But, if we had no power we had no heat. When I became a young adult I added a wood stove to alleviate that weakness. I first put in a used Franklin style wood stove. It ran away on me one time and I lost all faith in the safety of it due to not being able to close down its draft. One thing there was never any shortage of on the Queens Line was draft for your chimney. I replaced the Franklin the very next day with a new airtight stove and that problem was solved. Come what may we would still stay warm.

People all over used to be encouraged to keep Victory Gardens during the world wars to aid or relieve demand on farms for military food production. They also freed up use of trucks and trains for transporting those goods. Many small town folk added a milk cow and a few chickens to that and dramatically increased their self sufficiency through them. It would be almost unthinkable now, but the sound of roosters crowing and cows bawling to be milked would be automatic alarm clocks in small towns and villages back in the day. 

 On our farm, while we were devoted to beef production, along with a large garden, we also had meat birds, a few pigs, and kept a milk cow for the house. My sister and I drank a lot of milk in our childhood days. Our large freezer was full of beef, pork, and chicken. Our basement had a large produce bin which was heaped with potatoes, carrots, parsnips, turnips, and beets. We were never hungry, ever. Other than things like eggs, butter, or bread, we had at least a whole year's supply of food on hand at all times. Probably quite a bit more.

 In the winter, our milk cows were kept inside our small cow byre. It was steel sided outside, and just rough lumber inside. The building was split in two with a pig pen in one half, and the cow byre on the other half. The wall on the far side of the manger in front of the cows split the two purposeful halves of the building. The cow byre itself was split roughly in half, one side being the tie stalls for the two cows, and the other, slightly larger side being the calf pen. The cows stood on an elevated wood floor to be easy on their hooves and warm to lie on, bedded down in straw, of course, for a long Canadian winter inside. The cow byre had insulated walls and hay in the loft so it was very cozy for them. And us. The calves were allowed to be with their mothers part of the time but could be tucked away out of nuisance's reach at milking time. We didn't have power in there at first, so we used a red painted hurricane oil lamp for light. We would light it in the house and use it for light out to and in the cow byre. They were called hurricane lamps because they wouldn't blow out in a strong wind as all other oil lamps up until the time they were invented were prone to do. They didn't give off a lot of light, but, I gotta tell ya, some light beats no light any time. You are always grateful for light.

 To walk into the cow byre at night after feeding the beef stockers was an indescribably wonderful thing. Queens Line winter nights were generally cold and windy. Some nights were blustery, and a few nights were just downright blizzards, inhospitable to anything outside much less than a polar bear. Well, beef cattle actually did pretty well in it as long as they had lots to eat and a good windbreak. Almost always that bitter West wind blew, and it just seemed to go right through you. Stepping into the warm and cozy cow byre and thankfully shutting the diagonal braced tongue and groove door behind you between you and a cold winter's night was one of life's simple little joys that just can't be understood unless you experienced it yourself. The enveloping warmth of those two big, well-fed dairy cows in that small insulated barn was absolutely delightful. It instantly made you feel like everything was going to be alright no matter what that everything might actually be. And you never wanted to leave.

 We would hang the oil lamp up and bring some soft light into their dark, quiet little nighttime world. While Dad forked out the manure outside onto the pile one way, I'd water the cows with a few trips outside with a pail the other way to the trough for the beef cattle. The cows would drain the pail in amazing deep draughts of their wide muzzles somehow without getting their nostrils in the water. They would signify they had drank to their satisfaction with a horizontal sort of a long bobbing nod of their heads. When the second one did it, that thankfully meant the last trip back out to the water trough. A big scoop of oats was dumped in the manger for each to feed and occupy them. Then, it was settle in to milking with a bucket and stool while the girls contentedly munched their grain. They were given their hay last thing before we left for the evening and headed back to the house. 

 Dad patiently and skillfully milked them; Bossy first, and then April, with steady, rhythmetic jets of milk into the pail, from untold hours of a lifetime of practice. The first several squirts had a metallic ring as they struck the bottom of the galvanized  pail, then they steadily got more muted sounding as the milk filled and foamed in the pail. 

 The barn cats would anxiously mill around the stool and under the pail in between Dad's boots, arching their backs and rubbing their cheeks on everything they could, eagerly awaiting their twice daily drink of fresh, warm, nourishing whole milk. These days we are told that "raw meat or milk isn't good for cats", but I never saw an otherwise healthy barn cat that didn't thrive on mice and milk. They would be served their fresh milk in a couple of deep saucers, and then retire to a straw bale to contentedly wash their faces with their paws in that endearing cat-like way, and then overall groom themselves. By the time we left for the evening they'd be curled up in snug little balls sound asleep in the morning hay the cows pushed aside into the corners of the manger. The cows didn't seem to mind their presence a bit and to all outward appearances did their best not to disturb them. It was all very cooperative and peaceable. Mankind could learn a lot from cows and cats. 

 The calves were at first allowed to be with their mothers 24/7 except for milking time. Later they were kept all the time in the big calf pen with lots of clean straw for warm bedding and ample room for them to romp around. We'd give them their milk from the pail. They always got the first, richest pails from their moms. The rest was for everyone and everything else. I would hop over the gate into the calf pen, and Dad would hand me over the pails to feed the calves. They would half drown themselves in the pail in their excitement. I had to hold on tight as they powerfully bunted the pail in their instinctive action to illicit a milk let down response from their mother's udder. That powerful bunting could earn them a swift kick from their mom when they were nursing. If they were too aggressive, the hoof of Mom's surprisingly skillful kick would make sharp contact with their bony little head with a sound somewhere between a crack and a thud. Stunned and dazed, in response the calf would simply spread its front legs apart and lower its head and vigorously shake it off, collect its senses, then go right back to it, almost completely undeterred. And their mom would let them because their mom still wants him or her to nurse, just not so darn rough! Some calves would learn quickly, while others would take their share of lumps to get what they wanted. That has been going on since time immemorial. Bovine calves are tough little rascals. They have to be. 

 When they had finished their pails, they would still be just mad with the desire and instinct to nurse so I'd hastily hop back out and they'd be left with only each other's ears to suck on. It was always funny watching dopey little calves trying their best to not get their own ears sucked on while doing everything they could to suck on the other ones' instead. Little calves have only one thing on their little minds. It was a battle of wills without much wisdom. 

 Warm dairy cows and their fresh milk mingled with burning coal oil remains probably the most cherished of all my farm boy's catalog of aroma memories. Those two were great cows. Bossy was the stereotypical black and white Holstein and her daughter, big-framed, strong, pure white April must have been from a Charolais sire to drop a beef calf in case it had arrived male, but I don't remember for sure. Bossy could be a little more irritable at times during milking with an impatient stomp or maybe kick at the pail, but April was pretty even tempered. When Bossy would stomp or kick the pail in a testy mood, Dad would admonish her with a "STAAAP!" And she did. She wasn't a bad girl at all. Just maybe a little entitled from good treatment. She never showed any attitude whatsoever at any other time than milking.

 As a cold Queens Line winter's night raged at the West facing Plexiglass window, while Dad was milking, I used to thrill a little, and luxuriate a lot, at the contrast between the bone chilling conditions out there, and the almost indescribable coziness and security in here, with those two heat machine bovines. On a stormy night, I would put my nose up to the cold West window with its scrollwork feathery frosted designs tracing gracefully from edge to edge and a happy smile would spread across my face at the climatic brutality snarling and lashing so angrily at the other side of that pane only a scant one eighth of an inch away, yet utterly unable to affect me in here. It used to absolutely amaze me that you could so easily freeze to death out there and yet be able to take your hat and even jacket off in here with no heat source whatsoever but two languid milk cows. You could have slept in the manger without a blanket. Those two doe-eyed dairy cows very efficiently converted some hay and grain and water into copious amounts of life giving warmth. And all the milk two calves, a few pigs, several cats, my sister Polly and I, and Cory, and whoever else dropped in could ever drink. Rich, whole milk for the calves and cats. Whole milk mixed with wheat and molasses provender for the pigs on the other side of the building. For us it was allowed to sit and set up in the house and then the cream was skimmed off and the rest was strained through a blue J-Cloth and poured in a pitcher. It was then ready for drinking and baking. And cereal. A bowl of cereal was just wonderful with un-pasteurized farm fresh milk. A dairy farm we weren't, but you would never know the difference from inside our house. 

 I would give the girls a hug around their big, strong, deep necks as they idly chewed their cud and they would raise their heads slightly and give a very low, soft murmur of docile, affectionate acknowledgement. What incredible additions to our self sufficiency they were! They were just amazing animals, and unmistakably obvious examples of the Good Lord's Providence for us. 

 For all the smashes, bashes, and crashes I have had in my life from farming, sports, and just plain misadventure, I have only ever had one broken bone in my wrist when I was 18 or 19 and a couple of broken ribs in my 40's. I attribute that to the solid start my bones got as a kid with all that calcium-rich milk.

 I can't imagine how different our lives would have been without those wonderful cows. On second thought, I don't even want to.

 The soft glow of the oil lantern and the warmth and sweet smell of the fresh milk in that little building created an atmosphere of near timelessness. It almost could have been a hundred and fifty years ago for all you knew in there. Granted, with its steel siding and insulation and vapour barrier, it was definitely more snug than an 1825 building but the appointments and conditions inside pretty much defied dating. It was soul soothingly peaceful, quiet, and cozy. The whole world could be raging away out there for all we knew, but peace and tranquility reigned supreme in that serene little cow byre. From firsthand experience it is very easy to see why olde English homesteads kept their cows under the same roof as the family. 

 Alas, the very best things in life sometimes seem to be the least meant to last, and Dad, Bossy, April, and that simple little Queens Line cow byre are all now long gone. But, they all are still only a winsome moment's recall away, in the deepest, fondest part, of my heart of hearts. 

 I have referenced different times that I truly believe there are and will be animals in Heaven. I sincerely hope there are snug little cow byres there as well.