I really enjoyed learning more about your father and your family. You are such a good writer and I do look forward to getting your articles, I find that I truly connect the topics and insights that you share. Glad you are taking the time to do these writings. (-:
I’ve written about my Dad already. Still processing his death and missing him terribly. Something special about a “girl” Dad. Same as you, he made me and my sisters believe we could do anything…. ❤️
Just enjoying a cup of coffee, reading a delightful blog, and suddenly, out of nowhere, some water was rolling down my cheeks. I will fill my weekend with memories of my Dad. Thanks for sharing.
I read about the Harvey Girls years ago, and now I find such was your mother! Anyway here is my contribution to Father's Day from my bicycling memoir, "Turning Centuries."
Pulling Calves
One reason I like to sleep on the ground is because you have to wake throughout the night to turn your body again and again. Besides not letting the blood settle and the joints stiffen, this need makes me much more conscious of my dreams. I dreamed this night of pulling calves.
Early evening sunbaked thermals brought whiffs from the valley floor that hinted of warm barns in winter, the scent of thick molasses mixed with boiling water and sprinkled on last summer’s hay to sweeten it. But then a shift in current and the odor seemed more acrid, like the hoppers at planting time filled with seeds coated in fertilizers and pesticides. Or was it the odor of fresh cut silage? The heavy smell permeated Father’s clothes whenever he was chopping sedan grass. He always brought the barn on his clothes when he came into the house after the night’s milking. Hours later he would be putting on the same clothes to go back out into the dark again for the 4:30 morning milking. Sick or not, this was his routine…he did this for his family without complaint every day of every year. Some evenings he would have to return to the barn when a cow was sick and needed tending. He carried his love in those thick, strong hands.
A farmer never pulls a calf unless he has to. It’s dangerous work that could kill both the mother and her offspring. Normally the calf’s head and front legs emerge first, allowing the vulva to stretch gradually to accommodate the calf’s body. However, if the hooves of both front feet don’t show up along with the snout, the farmer can’t afford to wait more than an hour to swing into action.
You get to learn the basics of life pretty quick on a farm, from the time you first witness Sunday’s chicken dinner running around with its head cut off until it bleeds out. In my dreams that night, blanketed by the cool air of Mount Bachelor, I heard Father calling me.
Your chores grew with you as a farm boy. I was old enough to carry pails of milk, but not long-legged enough to reach the clutch on the FarmAll. About that time in life we were sliding our chairs back from the kitchen table after supper. Father told me to follow him up to the barn.
Late on this winter night the whitewashed walls of the barn softened the yellow glare of the bare bulbs overhead. Father stood on the center aisle between two rows of cow rumps. Close my eyes and I see Father disinfecting his right arm from the bucket I’d normally use to wash a cow’s teats before milkings.
Father lifted the tail of a cow we knew by name. Gert was wide eyed with exhaustion from hard labor. Father worked his hand into her swollen vulva far enough to declare, “It’s breeching. Ken, go get a pail of warm, soapy water.”
Father reached into the vulva, pushing the calf’s rump back away from the cervix. I can still see his face resting on the cow’s withers, with one arm shoulder deep in her bowels, reaching and feeling, trying to find a rear limb and position it with his hand far up her belly. He works fast, feeling for the hock joint on one rear leg and lifting the leg in place, gripping firmly enough without rupturing the placenta. Finally, working deep in her bowels, Father strains to cover the calf’s hoof with his fingers. He can’t afford rupturing the birth canal. Father looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Ken, go get some baling twine.”
He works in a fury, positioning one then the other hoof until they are both sticking out the vulva, though the transparency of the placenta tells him it is at the breaking point. If it breaks the calf can drown before it is delivered. Now life would be measured in minutes. He must lash both hooves quickly or risk their slipping forward into the womb.
No matter how old a child grows, he never forgets this face of Father, contorted with anxiety, no time to register his anger. I can still see how he wraps the twine twice around the limbs—over the fetlock and pastern, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on either joint.
Father bracing one foot against the manure drop. Even then the boy knew what came next was the life and death moment. Too little a suffocation. Too much and a rupture of flesh. A life or death moment for the mother, for the calf, for the farm.
And then he pulls, knowing without time to think this is the moment the welfare of his family and the farm itself are once again and always in his hands. Sometimes it takes the help of the nearest farmer to pull a calf in a bad breech birth, but he is all he has. The placenta ruptures, exposing the calf’s slick black and white hair. The exhausted mother bellows. And so, one last time he straddles the manure gutter on one foot, this time bracing the other knee on the hind quarter of the cow.
He wraps the twine around both wrists and pulls until his face turns rage red and every vein in his forehead pulses. The calf inches from her mother’s womb. Father shouts, “Get over here and lock your arms around me!”
I bury my head in his hip, with its comforting whiff of dry dung, and hold on tight. “Now lean back and pull.” More and more of black and white still encased in blue gray placenta. Suddenly Father is cradling the newborn, protecting it as it slides toward the concrete manure drop. Not until he has cleared the calf’s mouth with the palm of his hand does the tension ease from his face. The chains holding Gert’s stanchion rattle as she swivels her head around. The pain and anxiety in her big cow eyes fade as she strains against her chains to see her newborn. Her soothing moo tells the boy all is right on the farm once again.
My dream made me realize something a child could not understand. Rage can be nothing more than love gone mad. A hard life produces a hard man, and there is no place for softness in its breech. Pulling Gert’s calf that night is the only memory I have of Father welcoming my embrace.
Looking back over all those years since that night camped on Mt. Bachelor, the Fuji was more than just a vehicle for transcending distance; it formed the axle of my life.
"He carried his love in those thick, strong hands." What a wonderful tribute to your Dad. It sounds like a complicated relationship. I so appreciate you sharing your lovely words. Thank you. Please keep the comments coming. They add so much to this newsletter.
I really enjoyed learning more about your father and your family. You are such a good writer and I do look forward to getting your articles, I find that I truly connect the topics and insights that you share. Glad you are taking the time to do these writings. (-:
Thank you Reva! I am thoroughly enjoying writing these posts. Thank you for reading my blabbering!! :) ❤️❤️
I’ve written about my Dad already. Still processing his death and missing him terribly. Something special about a “girl” Dad. Same as you, he made me and my sisters believe we could do anything…. ❤️
I understand the pain and grief of losing a parent, especially one of the good ones.. I am keeping you in my heart. ❤️❤️❤️
Your Dad Richard is an Amazing Man.
He loves you, James! xoxoxo
Just enjoying a cup of coffee, reading a delightful blog, and suddenly, out of nowhere, some water was rolling down my cheeks. I will fill my weekend with memories of my Dad. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, Jana. I would love to hear your Dad's story if you feel comfortable sharing. xoxoxo
I read about the Harvey Girls years ago, and now I find such was your mother! Anyway here is my contribution to Father's Day from my bicycling memoir, "Turning Centuries."
Pulling Calves
One reason I like to sleep on the ground is because you have to wake throughout the night to turn your body again and again. Besides not letting the blood settle and the joints stiffen, this need makes me much more conscious of my dreams. I dreamed this night of pulling calves.
Early evening sunbaked thermals brought whiffs from the valley floor that hinted of warm barns in winter, the scent of thick molasses mixed with boiling water and sprinkled on last summer’s hay to sweeten it. But then a shift in current and the odor seemed more acrid, like the hoppers at planting time filled with seeds coated in fertilizers and pesticides. Or was it the odor of fresh cut silage? The heavy smell permeated Father’s clothes whenever he was chopping sedan grass. He always brought the barn on his clothes when he came into the house after the night’s milking. Hours later he would be putting on the same clothes to go back out into the dark again for the 4:30 morning milking. Sick or not, this was his routine…he did this for his family without complaint every day of every year. Some evenings he would have to return to the barn when a cow was sick and needed tending. He carried his love in those thick, strong hands.
A farmer never pulls a calf unless he has to. It’s dangerous work that could kill both the mother and her offspring. Normally the calf’s head and front legs emerge first, allowing the vulva to stretch gradually to accommodate the calf’s body. However, if the hooves of both front feet don’t show up along with the snout, the farmer can’t afford to wait more than an hour to swing into action.
You get to learn the basics of life pretty quick on a farm, from the time you first witness Sunday’s chicken dinner running around with its head cut off until it bleeds out. In my dreams that night, blanketed by the cool air of Mount Bachelor, I heard Father calling me.
Your chores grew with you as a farm boy. I was old enough to carry pails of milk, but not long-legged enough to reach the clutch on the FarmAll. About that time in life we were sliding our chairs back from the kitchen table after supper. Father told me to follow him up to the barn.
Late on this winter night the whitewashed walls of the barn softened the yellow glare of the bare bulbs overhead. Father stood on the center aisle between two rows of cow rumps. Close my eyes and I see Father disinfecting his right arm from the bucket I’d normally use to wash a cow’s teats before milkings.
Father lifted the tail of a cow we knew by name. Gert was wide eyed with exhaustion from hard labor. Father worked his hand into her swollen vulva far enough to declare, “It’s breeching. Ken, go get a pail of warm, soapy water.”
Father reached into the vulva, pushing the calf’s rump back away from the cervix. I can still see his face resting on the cow’s withers, with one arm shoulder deep in her bowels, reaching and feeling, trying to find a rear limb and position it with his hand far up her belly. He works fast, feeling for the hock joint on one rear leg and lifting the leg in place, gripping firmly enough without rupturing the placenta. Finally, working deep in her bowels, Father strains to cover the calf’s hoof with his fingers. He can’t afford rupturing the birth canal. Father looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Ken, go get some baling twine.”
He works in a fury, positioning one then the other hoof until they are both sticking out the vulva, though the transparency of the placenta tells him it is at the breaking point. If it breaks the calf can drown before it is delivered. Now life would be measured in minutes. He must lash both hooves quickly or risk their slipping forward into the womb.
No matter how old a child grows, he never forgets this face of Father, contorted with anxiety, no time to register his anger. I can still see how he wraps the twine twice around the limbs—over the fetlock and pastern, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on either joint.
Father bracing one foot against the manure drop. Even then the boy knew what came next was the life and death moment. Too little a suffocation. Too much and a rupture of flesh. A life or death moment for the mother, for the calf, for the farm.
And then he pulls, knowing without time to think this is the moment the welfare of his family and the farm itself are once again and always in his hands. Sometimes it takes the help of the nearest farmer to pull a calf in a bad breech birth, but he is all he has. The placenta ruptures, exposing the calf’s slick black and white hair. The exhausted mother bellows. And so, one last time he straddles the manure gutter on one foot, this time bracing the other knee on the hind quarter of the cow.
He wraps the twine around both wrists and pulls until his face turns rage red and every vein in his forehead pulses. The calf inches from her mother’s womb. Father shouts, “Get over here and lock your arms around me!”
I bury my head in his hip, with its comforting whiff of dry dung, and hold on tight. “Now lean back and pull.” More and more of black and white still encased in blue gray placenta. Suddenly Father is cradling the newborn, protecting it as it slides toward the concrete manure drop. Not until he has cleared the calf’s mouth with the palm of his hand does the tension ease from his face. The chains holding Gert’s stanchion rattle as she swivels her head around. The pain and anxiety in her big cow eyes fade as she strains against her chains to see her newborn. Her soothing moo tells the boy all is right on the farm once again.
My dream made me realize something a child could not understand. Rage can be nothing more than love gone mad. A hard life produces a hard man, and there is no place for softness in its breech. Pulling Gert’s calf that night is the only memory I have of Father welcoming my embrace.
Looking back over all those years since that night camped on Mt. Bachelor, the Fuji was more than just a vehicle for transcending distance; it formed the axle of my life.
"He carried his love in those thick, strong hands." What a wonderful tribute to your Dad. It sounds like a complicated relationship. I so appreciate you sharing your lovely words. Thank you. Please keep the comments coming. They add so much to this newsletter.
xoxo