ã1998
David M. Loomis
About
four in the morning, the farmer’s neighbor might, if he were awake, see
something remarkable. In the middle of the darkness of morning in most
farmhouses, a single lamp lights in the upstairs bedroom. After a time, the
light begins its patchwork of movement from window to window… to the bathroom
next, then to the hall, the kitchen, where it remains through coffee, and then
to the porch and barn yard, making its final splash as the entire milking parlor
comes to life with the inflow of the herd and the whispering sounds of automatic
milkers.
Farm life can begin very early. It must, in order to
meet the schedule of the milking herd. Similarly, farm work ends late. The cows
again. The afternoon milking begins around four and concludes a bit later than
most folks eat supper. One secret about farming that a lot of my neighbors
don’t know is that in addition to this extended work day, dairy cows have to
be milked. Every day. Daily milking isn’t just good business; it’s the only
healthy alternative for a producing cow. And
what’s healthy for cows can be very much a strain for the farmer and his
family. It was years at a time before the farmers in my family could take a
vacation. When the kids were old enough to handle the chores, it became easier
for mom and dad to leave, but by then, they may have put in twenty years of
milking and farm work. Even a weekend away from the farm meant finding a big
hearted neighbor, or hiring a man to keep up with things while you’re away.
Cows do not honor weekends, holidays or the Sabbath.
When grandpa moved off the farm into the “city”
of Medina, he wanted to keep alive the Christmas eve tradition of supper, and
family gift giving at his home. As family cars began arriving on Christmas Eve
at Miller Drive, we always knew to be careful to leave one last spot at the
driveway’s end for Uncle Gerald’s family. They would be later than the rest,
arriving just about the time the ham came out of the oven and grandma was
beginning to worry about them. When they pulled in, the kids would run out and
stand near their car waiting to help carry in plastic laundry baskets filled
with presents. We kids didn’t care that they arrived later, as long as they
had those presents. As I think back on it now, however, it must have been very
hard for Gerald’s family to give up even a little bit of the holidays to
feeding and milking. To feel rushed on Christmas Eve…to spend Christmas
morning and evening in the barn
When you’re raised in a farm family, I suppose that
you don’t mind it so much, but the neighbors who could see the farmhouse
lights must have wondered how anyone could endure that unrelenting schedule. For
those who wondered out loud about it, my grandfather would have explained it
this way. “The Bible,” he would say, “says that God gave man dominion over
the earth. That means that we have to take care of it, the ground and the plants
and the animals. I feel like I am
doing what God asked me to do.” To
grandpa, farming was more than a job; it was a God-ordained way of living.
One night, in particular, he witnessed that belief to me in a way that I
will never forget. We were sitting; grandpa and I, in the milk house one
snowless Christmas Eve just before our big family supper. He had nearly finished
washing milking equipment, and was hanging up the last of the steaming, wet,
stainless milk buckets. His hands and sleeves were soapy and dripping from the
wash water. Instead of heading to the warm house just then, he grabbed me with
his muscular, cold hand, and walked me back into the empty milking parlor. He
pointed to one of the stalls directly in front of us. “You know,” he said
softly, “Jesus spent his first Christmas in a place just like that.”
We stood there about long enough for his words to sink in. That was the
day I understood why grandpa farmed. A barn had been good enough for God, and
that made it good enough for him. And he understood that a man could endure a
lot if he knew he was doing the right thing.