When I was a kid, we lived on a fully operational dairy farm. My parents bought it and moved here in 1974 from Ontario. So, with dairy farming comes a lot of work. And when we were little, there was only so much we could do so mom and dad would hire help. Usually this was some young guy from within the church we attended. And as little kids can do, we ended up making buddies with these guys.
The various hired hands let us tag along to the fields, ‘help’ them unload wagon loads of hay, drive over to the cattle market, etc….basically if we weren’t given our own task, then we’d find a way to entertain ourselves. But, the best was the water fights. With lots of buckets at our disposal, we would have some epic water fights. At the end of a hot summer’s day, there was nothing like chasing each other around the yard with a bucket of cold well water to cool off. It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t want to play, one splash of a bucket made you a part of it. I recall one hired hand, John, who would threaten us with a steady stream from the hose on our rubber boots and just. one. word…..Dance. And if we didn’t, he thought nothing of soaking us. But don’t feel bad for us, we started just as many water fights as any one else. Who needs a water gun on a farm? Certainly not us.
Summers on the farm meant lunches in the field where we’d make an entire loaf of bread into sandwiches, pile into the farm pick-up and head out to whatever field they were haying in to bring the guys a meal. We’d lug a huge Thermos of Kool-aid along and another filled with cold water and then probably whatever sweets mom or one of us { my sister and I loved to bake! } had made and everyone would gather around for a break and a meal. The jugs would be passed around, one to another, not a thought of everyone drinking from the same jug. There was skill involved in pushing that little button and getting the stream of sweet liquid in your mouth and not down the front of your shirt. I don’t recall a single conversation or specific event about those meals, just that there was a sense of unity in the task at hand. If it was a good haying day, then that was what everyone focused on, in whatever way we could. Maybe Steve ran wagons back and forth to the fields and someone else milked so Dad could keep baling or stacking hay in the mow. I was the littlest so my tasks were different, I’d help mom make meals or unload wagons or help whoever was milking. But I also recall biking for hours up and down the drive way, down into the yard and behind the barn – so maybe I helped, too? Funny how over time the memories blend and fade.
Haying when I was a kid was nothing like it is now. The hay was cut, tedded and raked up, then it would get baled into square bales and stacked on the hay wagon. Then that wagon would be pulled up to the base of the elevator, unloaded and carried up the side of the barn on said elevator and then stacked in the hay mow into neat piles all the way to the rafters. Dad would come down from the haymow, shirtless, covered in sweat and chaff with jeans on to protect his legs from the prickly hay. You’d be hard pressed to find a hotter spot on the farm than the hay mow in July or August. He’d find the jug of water and take a long drink. If he had to go into the house, he needed to brush off and get all the hay out of his boots and off his wool socks on the doorstep. Of course, he was always tanned up because back then our tractors didn’t have cabs and certainly not air conditioning. Those guys worked so hard on the hottest days of the years in ensure that the cows would have an adequate supply of good quality hay for over the winter.
As we got older and were able to do more, our roles fell into a pattern. Saturdays were spent doing jobs around the farm and weeknights we took turns milking with Dad, or doing the other barn chores or staying in the house to help Mom clean up supper. My girls recently asked me what job I preferred. I think my answer is different now than it was as a kid. Clearly doing supper clean up with Mom was the easiest task so that was probably my answer as a kid. But now, as an adult who looks back at that time in my life, I would milk with Dad a hundred times over { no offence, Mom! } It was in that milking parlour I learned multiplication, I learned about animal husbandry, I learned to that not every minute spent with someone else needed to be filled with chatter. I learned which cows needed special attention and which cows to steer clear of. I learned to work through a belly full of supper, too, even though I told Dad repeatedly that my food was expanding and I thought I was dying. 😉 There is something to be said for the hard, regular work of milking, of producing food for this country’s people. { Don’t get me started on the Canadian Dairy industry but all I’ll say is be sure to buy products that sport the logo so you can be sure you are supporting your Canadian Dairy farmers!! }
It wasn’t all work and no play. We had loads of fun, too. Baseball games on Sunday nights after milking, sledding down the hill behind the barn, building hay forts, playing in the woods, walking to Strawberry Hill, biking for hours, sewing clothes for our dolls, riding our pony, sleeping in the tent in the back yard, eating yellow plums right off the tree, yes, those were the days.
I wouldn’t trade my childhood on the farm for anything. And even though I may not have enjoyed doing the farm work, I have come to appreciate the life lessons it taught me. So much so that we want our girls to have a taste of that in their childhood, too. That’s why they have animals, too. Yes, it’s fun and yes, I love having them around but I want my kids to grow up to work hard and to be responsible for someone who depends solely on them. Our girls make sure the animals needs are tended to before they get on the school bus each morning and again before they call it a day. I think those are important life lessons, I learned that on the farm as a kid.
As time passes, different things stand out to me about the way I was raised. At the time, we were surrounded by other farming families so these things seemed perfectly normal. But, I see that what we had was special, unique even. And I wouldn’t trade one day for any of it, it made me who I am today, and for that I am so very thankful.
To be continued,
Lori
