Some jobs seem so simple. Like greasing the elevator. How hard could it be? You just take your trusty grease gun and a tube of grease and go for it. It is recommended that you don’t wear a white suit or high heels, but other than such obvious exclusions, anyone can do it.
Of course the implement in question here isn’t the kind of elevator that carried passengers from floor to floor in old fashioned department stores, or the sort that is used to stockpile oceans of grain out on the prairies.
Instead, this elevator is a long, metal, skeleton conveyor that carries bales of hay across the haymow and dumps them where we want them. It hangs from the roof of the cow barn inside the mow and therein lies the rub. That roof is high. It is dark up there. There are bees, wasps, hornets and various other vespids. The roof isn’t just high; it is really, really high. Not quite as high as the Eiffel Tower, but a lot too high for the comfort of the acrophobics among us.
It hangs from chains so if you place our 32-foot wooden ladder between the ends, it just reaches. However, the whole affair sways alarmingly under the weight of whoever wields the grease gun. Of course the ladder in question is a big beast that is not tossed around casually too. Liz and I helped the boss put it up once and I can assure you from a personal perspective that it really isn’t a whole lot of fun.
That is probably why a significant amount of time elapsed between the day that someone pointed out to the hay crew that the bearing on the end of the elevator was squeaking loud enough to be heard over the milk pump, (which sounds a lot like a souped up Harley), and the day that they actually trekked up into the mow.
On the way up the first ladder, the boss repeatedly inquired of the chief assistant, “Did you check the grease gun?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I mean, did you really check it?”
“Yes, dad.”
“Are you sure?” and so on.
Once up in the mow, the staggeringly heavy ladder was maneuvered into place between the rails of the elevator. It takes a man and a boy to hold it still, which presented something of a problem for the greasing gang, as one of the above is required to climb up with the grease gun leaving either/or but not both at the bottom. With it finally secured (secured being a relative term here, as in secure as compared to hanging from a spider web over the Grand Canyon) they began to debate who was going up the ladder to do the dirty deed.
Eventually the chief assistant was chosen for his relative youth and agility. He went crawled up about half way and complained, “Dad, hold the ladder still, it’s moving.
“Dad, it’s really high up here,” and so on, until the hay boss called him back down, and with grease gun in hand, climbed up under the roof to do the job himself.
Of course, you already know where this is going. When he stuck the gun on the grease fitting while clinging to the top of the massive, swaying ladder at the top of the dark, scary hay mow ceiling, among a few thousand cranky yellow jackets and a couple of drowsy bats, there just one single squirt of grease in it. Not enough to do the job. Of course not. How could there be?
When they came over to tell me the story, they quoted the actual words that were uttered at that juncture, but I will spare the tender sensibilities of Farm Side readers. (Trust me, you would rather not know.)
This time, after climbing carefully back down the shuddering ladder, the boss himself filled the gun with a spanking new cartridge of grease. Then the assistant was sent up the ladder (in no uncertain terms) to do the greasing.
When he got up there, rest assured that he pumped the gun until grease flew in all directions. It darned near dripped on his daddy’s head. For some reason he wanted to do a very thorough job so that he would not have to do it again for at least a dozen years or so. He looked real happy to have his boots on solid ground and the ladder put away again, I’ll tell you.
They are over there unloading hay right now using that very same, extra-well-lubricated, cross-mow elevator. And if I hear the end bearing squeaking again I am just going to keep quiet and hope it bears up under the strain. Some things just aren’t worth the hassle.
Mr. Determination
The Mohawk River from Dunkin' Donuts
Making cheese at Palatine Valley Dairy (where we stopped to pick up a Semex Jersey stud book....(don't ask).
This is Carlene. We needed to get this door open for ventilation
Carlene's other side. These photos will go on her registration papers
This is the herb garden, honey locust tree
We got this picture from the driveway at one garage sale. 
My porch deer
Last nightBack in 2001 I told you about some types of cows that grace the average dairy farm, from Feed-Flinging Freda to Light Foot Lucy. Recently I realized that there are personality types among calves as well. You might notice this especially when, for one reason or another, (such as the regular stalls being full), there are baby cows tied in all sorts of weird and wonderful places around the barn. A very common and painful calf is the Knee-Buckin’ Biter. These little darlings know darned well that anything human probably has a bucket of milk secreted somewhere upon their person. KBB’s obviously believe that if they grab that human by the side of the leg, dig in their lower front teeth, and punch very, very hard with their flinty little heads, the bucket of milk will instantly be forthcoming. Actually the only thing forthcoming is the howl of pain produced by the poor human when their knee is chopped from under them while several precise curls of flesh are gouged away by chisel-like baby teeth. One of the twins that was born last week is a ferocious Knee-Buckin’ Biter. I have learned to squeeze around her, just out of reach of her eager mouth, but she nailed Ralph good this morning, much to his painful dismay.
Then there is the High-Kickin’ Heeler calf. A calf of this persuasion will stand quite still, calmly munching grain, as you walk by. Molasses wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Then just as you get almost past, but still nicely in reach, she will thrust both hind feet skyward, as if performing the Highland fling before an audience of thousands. Hoofs will flash past your head making you flinch in terror and manure will splatter all over you. And that’s if she misses. If she connects, well, all I can say is ouch.
More of a nuisance than a danger is the Rope-Chewing Chaser. These calves can’t seem to get enough fiber in their diet, no matter how much forage they eat. If they are tied properly with collars and chains they cause few problems, but woe betide the farmer who ties one up with some handy dandy bailing twine. Sweet little calfie-poo will gaze introspectively ceiling ward without a care in the world, all the while contemplatively chewing and eating the rope that ties her up, the one that holds her water bucket, and any loose twine she finds lying around too. Besides being the one that is running gleefully up and down the aisle every time you come to the barn, she is also the one who has all kinds of tummy problems caused by eating string.
There is a whole subset of calves that become apparent when someone begins training for the show season. First is the Thick-Headed Thrower calf. These little fools don’t seem to realize that the most pampered and beloved calves in the world grow up in a show string. As soon as a calf of this type has a halter placed on her noggin (which is apparently empty) and is asked to come along quietly, she revolts ala Gandhi.
She rolls her eyes, tosses her head, throws herself up side down (preferably in the gutter) and lies there as if taken suddenly dead. No amount of pulling or cajoling will induce her to stand up until she is positive that she has won the battle. Calves of this sort miss all the fun of going to the fair and being patted, puffed and coddled all together.
People-Pinching-Punchers are an alternative form of show calf. They are all too happy to move, but are lacking in both braking mechanism and spatial judgment. A PPP calf will squash you flat against a wall in the blink of an eye. She will also gladly drag you to the wash rack at a canter without regard to obstacles, such as people, baby strollers, Hereford bulls the size of semis, or mounds of hay bales belonging to someone else. PPP’s will clear lawn chairs and leap tall buildings at a single bound. Nobody likes them; everybody has them.
Then there are the Toe-Tapping-Topplers. These little sweethearts neither play dead nor run over your prone body (after they render it that way). Instead a TTT bides her time, strolling elegantly around the show ring, head held high and proud, looking like the star of the show that she knows she is. Then, just when the judge, (and all the spectators), are looking right at her (and you, of course), she steps firmly on your foot anchoring you solidly in place. She then nudges you firmly with her shoulder, dumping you neatly into the shavings in the ring. (At least you hope it is only shavings.) Every one laughs and you look monumentally silly. Your foot hurts like heck too.
The garden pond is beginning to shape up a little
Naturally, not unlike the Plain Old Polly milk cow, who does her job day in and day out without theatrics or fanfare, there is the Lovely-Little-Lady calf. LLL’s don’t kick, bite, or run rampant through the barn raising Cain. These ordinary critters stay where they are put, eat cow feed instead of body parts, and treat people with respect and affection. We have one of those right now; a KPat daughter named Frieland KPat Evidence. (We call her Evie). One of Becky’s babies, she stands tied on the corner of a busy walkway, right next to the curb where we like to sit while we wait for the last few cows to finish milking. We avoid tying calves there when we can, as they turn into KBB’S or HKH’s very quickly and make everybody miserable when they sit there resting their tired feet. However, Evie just eats, moves her fanny out of your way when you walk by, and lays her head in any convenient lap (if ear scratches are offered by the lap’s owner). Needless to say I wouldn’t mind having a dozen Evies. However, like all barns, ours is full of all the other kinds.
Bassist Keith Carper
Another shot, also showing drummer Nico Leophonte
My mom and dad
There’s One in Every Barn. Light Foot Lucy, I mean. She’s a six or seven year old cow who has parked in the same stall and been milked twice a day every day, 305 or more days a year since she was two years old. But just try walking into her stall without announcing your presence with a “Hey, girl” or, “Easy girl”. She will jet propel you into the next decade on the end of her hoof. It will hurt. It doesn’t matter if you just stepped out from beside her after putting the milker on her next stall neighbor. Step back in beside her without announcing yourself and–wham- you’re outta there. She also has very ticklish teats and gives a tap dancing demo every time you prep her. Chances are she’s allergic to the stable shovel too and indicates her displeasure by kicking it whenever you scrape off behind her. However, animals like her invariably give too much milk for you want to sell them and they always have their yearly calf, so they linger forever. Everybody on the farm is relieved when they take their yearly “dry period” vacation. Hey, cows get six weeks off every year-it’s written right in their contract. I wish I had someone negotiating a deal like that for me.
Then there’s Feed Flinging Frieda. Frieda is always another high producer. At least she doesn’t kick. Instead she eats continuously and always has an itchy backside. Since she is so busy filling her face, she has no time to reach around and lick her itchy spots. So she throws food at them. Only a cow would imagine that chucking a mouthful of haylage on her back would alleviate that troublesome itch.
Our current flinger’s name is Silverwing. You can spot her from the other end of the aisle. First of all, there is nearly always a cloud of feed seething behind her as she grabs a bite, swings her head at her back and then grabs another bite. If you miss that part of the performance, the four-inch pile of hay on her rump is a dead give away. She looks like a walking haystack. Her manger is always bare first, since most of her dinner is on her back, in the gutter or down your neck. We just love her.
Another favorite of mine is Cathy Crowder. Cows of her persuasion stand politely against the far side of their stall to let you in to work. They then wait until you’re bent over prepping their neighbor to discover a succulent nibble of feed in the manger on the other side. They forget all about your presence, swing their massive ribs or rump against you, squashing your tender anatomy onto the stall divider. If you squeal, slap at them or (heaven forbid) swear emphatically, they panic and jump up and down. After all, they totally forgot that you were there, so your reaction comes as a complete surprise. You haven’t lived until you have been crushed by a bouncing creature that weighs over half a ton. If you’re really stupid like I am and always react by swearing or slapping, you learn to crawl through the front of the stall into the manger real well. Sure can’t get out the back. It must be quite a treat to see a fat, ungainly woman squirt out from between the stalls like toothpaste out of a stepped on tube. Nobody dares to laugh though. They know Mommy better than that.
The Grass is Greener Gertie is only a problem in the summer. There could be grass up to her elbows, a feed wagon full of green chop, a cool, clear pond and several shade trees available right there in the pasture for her lounging and feeding pleasure. She would still rather find her way over, under, around or through the fence to find something unique to eat. Her great, great grandmother is undoubtedly responsible for the old saying.
Then there’s Plain Old Polly. She’s not an All American, nor does she give one hundred pounds a day. Day in and day out she moves over, stands still, renders up her daily portion of the milk check, and stays clean - on the right side of the fence no less. When the 4-H leader or the guy from the bull stud strolls through the barn, looking for stars of the show ring, she is passed unnoticed. The vet doesn’t pick her our as too fat or two thin. She never gets mastitis or gets loose in the stable at night to run around stomping calves and gobbling up all the grain. Every year she has a calf, often a heifer, who grows up and follows the same path. I wish we had a hundred like her. Actually, most of the cows in the barn fall into the Plain Old Polly class, but rest assured it’s the Frieda’s and the Lucy’s and the Cathy’s and the Gertie’s that get your attention.
Really BIG tomatoes
And squash
View from the ag side of the campus 
Flowering crabapples
Merchandise
For Steve
Not for sale
Posts
All Comments
Posts
All Comments
