MN Farm Girl
Well-known member
I wrote this essay for english a while back and was wondering what you guys think.
THE CALVING BARN.
The yard light casts shadows on the 1930's style barn. I walk up and stretch my arm past stretching point to reach the light switches on the wall over the gate. I flip the dull, white switch to the “on” position. The light casts a glow brighter than the sun, and friendlier than a dog. The sight of cows and calves paints a mural in my mind. Cow and calves means hard work, but I don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, if you like what you are doing, the physical labor doesn’t matter. If I had to choose a word to describe the calving barn it would be; calming.
The crackling of corn stalks, and the light reflecting off the oat straw is my carpet. The walls of aged douglas fir, my security blanket, and the beams of days past my ceiling. A cow lays down in the straw to have her calf, and lets out a “Whoosh” of air. We watch as the minutes trek slowly by and soon the water bag emerges. Dad and I sit on black, plastic, five gallon buckets against the cold, ½ inch square tube metal cattle paneling. The bull becomes bored in his pen on the west side of the barn, and itches his head on our backs through the gate. As the water bag pops, sending a flood onto the dry, fluffly straw. Two little white hooves appear. Dad sighs in gratitude that the toes on the hooves are pointed up, a sign that the baby is in the right position. The cow strains, and still no progress. Now we are up against time. If the baby isn’t born soon, he will die before he gets to breathe. As the seconds turn into minutes Dad wraps the thin, 12 inch chain around the feet and pulls as the cow works through another contraction. A slimy roan colored bull calf slips out of his watery home and into a dry cool island. We step back and watch them bond, mother and calf. A sense of pride wells within me at the sight, and a calming effect of a new little life that made it safely into the world. Ordinary noises fill my ears, a calf nursing, a cow playing in the water bucket, and a cat chirping her desire to be picked up and held.
Wind whistles through the cracks and creates its own tune. The cobwebs, and bale strings hanging on nails sway in the breeze. Pitchforks stand as soldiers under the light switches. The gates show evidence of a barn swallow nest of the summer gone past. A calf tries out his new vocal cords. “Braw,” he says. Everything settles down and peace sweeps in, spreading itself like a blanket around the building. It’s our own little paradise.
It’s getting late, but there is one more cow to calve. It just gets into you. Dad says that I can go the house and go to bed, but I stubbornly shake my head no. I’m so tired I could lay down in the corn stalks and sleep, but the anticipation of another little miracle is almost too much to bear. This time the cow has the calf all on her own. A fine, white bull. We watch in silence at the beauty of it all. Even all the manure we will have to clean out come fall is a small price to pay for the miracles of new lives being born. It is a mute testimony of the hard work, and determination that dad puts in every year to make the animals comfortable. The sound of water running into a bucket creates the base, a calf nursing adds the melody, and the spring wind is the harmony. All of the sounds blend together in a song of miracles and promises.
After having a bad day, talk to the cows and they don’t talk back or laugh at you. It calms me to know that I have someone to talk to and share all my problems or fears. The cows sound smelly and dirty, but in reality they are friends only some will be fortunate to have. I confided more in my show heifer during the summer, than I had to my parents.
All the memories that are in that barn are like a book. All different, yet a learning
experience. After all the time I’ve spent in there and the memories I’ve shared, it could be called my biography, written seven cows and seven calves. Each year a different chapter. As the cow cleans the calf off and the baby seeks nourishment from his mother, I walk to the gate, not wanting to leave, but I have to go. As I shut the lights off on another calving season, I say hello to a summer to come full of calves and the cows.
THE CALVING BARN.
The yard light casts shadows on the 1930's style barn. I walk up and stretch my arm past stretching point to reach the light switches on the wall over the gate. I flip the dull, white switch to the “on” position. The light casts a glow brighter than the sun, and friendlier than a dog. The sight of cows and calves paints a mural in my mind. Cow and calves means hard work, but I don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, if you like what you are doing, the physical labor doesn’t matter. If I had to choose a word to describe the calving barn it would be; calming.
The crackling of corn stalks, and the light reflecting off the oat straw is my carpet. The walls of aged douglas fir, my security blanket, and the beams of days past my ceiling. A cow lays down in the straw to have her calf, and lets out a “Whoosh” of air. We watch as the minutes trek slowly by and soon the water bag emerges. Dad and I sit on black, plastic, five gallon buckets against the cold, ½ inch square tube metal cattle paneling. The bull becomes bored in his pen on the west side of the barn, and itches his head on our backs through the gate. As the water bag pops, sending a flood onto the dry, fluffly straw. Two little white hooves appear. Dad sighs in gratitude that the toes on the hooves are pointed up, a sign that the baby is in the right position. The cow strains, and still no progress. Now we are up against time. If the baby isn’t born soon, he will die before he gets to breathe. As the seconds turn into minutes Dad wraps the thin, 12 inch chain around the feet and pulls as the cow works through another contraction. A slimy roan colored bull calf slips out of his watery home and into a dry cool island. We step back and watch them bond, mother and calf. A sense of pride wells within me at the sight, and a calming effect of a new little life that made it safely into the world. Ordinary noises fill my ears, a calf nursing, a cow playing in the water bucket, and a cat chirping her desire to be picked up and held.
Wind whistles through the cracks and creates its own tune. The cobwebs, and bale strings hanging on nails sway in the breeze. Pitchforks stand as soldiers under the light switches. The gates show evidence of a barn swallow nest of the summer gone past. A calf tries out his new vocal cords. “Braw,” he says. Everything settles down and peace sweeps in, spreading itself like a blanket around the building. It’s our own little paradise.
It’s getting late, but there is one more cow to calve. It just gets into you. Dad says that I can go the house and go to bed, but I stubbornly shake my head no. I’m so tired I could lay down in the corn stalks and sleep, but the anticipation of another little miracle is almost too much to bear. This time the cow has the calf all on her own. A fine, white bull. We watch in silence at the beauty of it all. Even all the manure we will have to clean out come fall is a small price to pay for the miracles of new lives being born. It is a mute testimony of the hard work, and determination that dad puts in every year to make the animals comfortable. The sound of water running into a bucket creates the base, a calf nursing adds the melody, and the spring wind is the harmony. All of the sounds blend together in a song of miracles and promises.
After having a bad day, talk to the cows and they don’t talk back or laugh at you. It calms me to know that I have someone to talk to and share all my problems or fears. The cows sound smelly and dirty, but in reality they are friends only some will be fortunate to have. I confided more in my show heifer during the summer, than I had to my parents.
All the memories that are in that barn are like a book. All different, yet a learning
experience. After all the time I’ve spent in there and the memories I’ve shared, it could be called my biography, written seven cows and seven calves. Each year a different chapter. As the cow cleans the calf off and the baby seeks nourishment from his mother, I walk to the gate, not wanting to leave, but I have to go. As I shut the lights off on another calving season, I say hello to a summer to come full of calves and the cows.