One of my favorite memories of my brother Clifford is from when I was young and he milked the dozen or so cows they had on the farm. Often, the cows were across the creek, up the hill and he would send the dog to go get the cows. Sometimes there would be a "troublemaker" and he would have to go up himself to get her.
But when all the cows were stanchioned and fed, I used to sit in the hay above the cows and just listen to the rhythm of the automatic milking machines pulsing and whooshing and clicking, and to my brother singing above the din of it all in his deep bass voice. It was a safe, comfortable place, filled with the glorious smells of warm milk, sweet hay, grain and cows. Yes, I like the smell of cows!!
I think one of the things I loved so much was the music. There was no shyness in Cliff's singing. It was loud and confident; I suspect even the cows liked it.
I think I was born to be loud and boisterous and carefree. I watch my son during basketball practice; and while the other kids are dribbling, bent-kneed, quick and agile, he is skipping and dribbling, carefree, and just happy to be in the moment. He is SO like Cliff that way.
I think I was meant to be that way, too. It always seems to sneak out of me in unguarded moments. I talk too loudly or I get up from my chair and dance into the kitchen to the tune of some old music on TV (much to the amusement of my husband). But Mom had to work when I was little, and left me in the care of "Nanny", a 70-something-year-old lady who could not tolerate noise or raucous, and so I learned to be quiet in my speech and movement...most of the time.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I loved Cliff's singing so much. Perhaps this is where I learned that it was okay to be noisy around cows. Or perhaps it's something in the genes.
I heard several stories about Cliff's ability to call the cows today. I was a little surprised to learn that it was a gift or a skill. I had seen him do it all my life. It never occurred to me that not everyone did this. I have worked for three dairies over the course of my life. When I worked for the Pitneys, Jim had his replacement herds in various pastures. In the summer he would run a herd of young heifers on a pasture off Cox Butte Road. I never saw the back of the pasture. We took a 5-gallon bucket of grain out to them every day, checked their water and did a head count and cursory health check. One day we went out and there were no heifers to be seen. I said to Jim, "Where are they?" He said to me, "Watch this." He dumped the grain in the feeder then turned the bucket upside down and began to beat on the bottom of it like a drum. Shortly, I heard rustling from the shade of the woods. It grew louder and louder and pretty soon 22 heifers emerged from the wood, trotting over to their dinner.
When Gary and I were first getting to know each other, one thing that amazed him about me was my ability to call the cows. He has a memory of me leaning out the barn door, calling, "C'mon ladies!" and the whole herd began to wake from their afternoon naps and meander into the holding pen. (I always felt more at home in a milking parlor than anywhere else...I could be loud and dance and just be myself...and the cows never told a soul!)
Anyone familiar with dairies knows there is no magic in this. Cows are conditioned...they want to eat and they want to be milked. Usually, at four in the morning, the lights turning on in the parlor and milk house, the sound of the hay being thrown down and grain being scooped into the feeders, and the sound of the vaccum pump and rinse water being run through the lines--all of these things are equivalent to ringing the breakfast bell.
But dairy cows are one thing. They are used to being handled. They are tame.
I remember my first experience with beef cattle. It was on the Mendenhall farm and we were moving a couple of herefords that had gotten free back into a pasture. My job was to stand by the gate and make sure they did not go past me and past the gate, but rather through the gate. My first lesson in cow herding--stand there and wave your arms if they come toward you--probably earned me my first job on a dairy. (I would learn later that this does not work for sheep at all--they will run past you, under you or even over you... or even try to run right through you like you are not there--nope, I don't speak sheep at all!!) With cattle, if you are taller than they are, you are bigger.
By and large, dairy cattle are much tamer than beef cattle. And aside from beating the "tom-tom" to call them out of the woods for supper, they are not handled much and are in general, not likely to come when called. They ARE still cattle though, they get used to a routine, and they come to food. I'm sure my brother's ability to call them rested in the fact that he talked to them when he fed them or talked to them at all, and they knew his voice.
When I go out my back door, my horses always come. I am the chef. The back door opening means the possibilty of food. The truck starting up might mean we are going to get hay or something better. When I come home from a walk, a whinney nearly always greets me.
When I walk down the driveway to get the paper, there are usually three or four cats following me. Why? I don't feed them out on the road or take them for walks...they just follow me. And they follow me back to the house too. When I get up from my desk, my entourage of two dogs preceeds me. I cannot sneak anywhere in the house when the dogs are in, becuase whenever I get up from wherever I am, they go ahead of me. My old beagle was so attuned to my customs that if I put my "walking" shoes on, she would eagerly stand by the door and I could not leave without her.
I think the "ability" to call the cows (or the cats or the dogs or whomever) lies in the relationship to the creatures. My grandma could make friends with any creature. No matter where she was in the world, she took time to observe and interact with the creatures around her. I think THAT is the real gift. I suppose anyone could "call the cows", but not just anyone cares to!!
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