A Light in the Barn

By Jim Graupner
[Reprinted from The Settler, Christmas 1983, Vol. 2, No. 4; illustrations by Jim Graupner]





On the farm, despite the gradual transition between one season and another, there was always some point when we knew that we were in the throes of winter--a sudden snowstorm, perhaps. A light in the barn cast through thickly frosted windows the warm reality of the on-going life within; that milking was being done.

Winter was a difficult time on our dairy farm in Spencer. The bitter-cold weather manifested a whole raft of problems for our dad: pumps, silage, and watering cups on the stanchions would freeze; tractors needed "plugging in;" the barnyard and lanes would drift deep with snow. But it was a special time in our lives; the steamy atmosphere inside the barn mingled the smells of cows and of hay and silage and is as real, still, as the rememberance of the clean nip of the winter air outside.

The process of doing "chores"--bedding, feeding, cleaning and milking--was conducted virtually the same way both in the morning and in the evening. For Dad, the workday began as early as 4:30 a.m. and would end as late as 9:00 p.m. He would get up, have a cup of coffee warmed up from the night before, and just befoe he'd venture out into the darkness to throw down silage and feed the cows, he would call upstairs, "Boys!" We knew subconsciously that a new day had begun. By clever intuition we calculated the precious remaining minutes before the inevitable combination of "Boys, come on now!" and the feeble, but piercing whistle, "whwee, whwee, whwee" that would ascend the stairs from Mother below.

Perhaps Ken would already be on his way down, and then the other boys, pulling on their barn clothes frozen into whatever shape they were cast the night before and revived by our own body heat. A brief stop in the kitchen for kuchen and coffee and then out into the cold. The slam of the door was my clue to jump out finally from under the pile of quilts to join the others.

The barn was lighted with a row of bulbs down the center aisle, leaving the cows to eat in the shadows. The pungent fermentation of the corn silage thrown down earlier by Dad still lingered.

Without fail, Dad would say, "Good morning," to each of us as we rinsed the Surge milkers or started washing utters in preparation for milking the 40-odd cows.

We milked in order, generally speaking, except for Dad who took all the problem cows and had his own order. We milked the line from left to right, approaching the cows from the right side. We threw the black strap, onto which the milking machine would be hung, over the cow's back and then washed the cow's utter. The water was always very hot at first and cold later on; hands became chapped easily and nerve endinding dulled irretrievably. The massaging and washing of the utters had to be done just before the machines would be put on because the cows would quickly let down their milk; some cows just naturally let their milk down too fast and had to be taken care of first.

After they were milked, the cows would lie down with a big heave and sigh, or stood sleepy-eyed, breathing moist air into the cold hay; cats found a spot in the warm shallows of the hips of the resting cows.
Milk was poured from the milking machine into large pails and hauled by twos out to the milk house, separated from the barn by a breezeway. It took skill to deliver the milk without spilling through the two doors which always seemed to stick, and empty the contents into the strainer on the lid of the bulk tank. The milk house was warmer than the barn because it had a bottle-gas burner in it.


Usually milking was a very quiet process, the quietude punctuated only with the clink of the milk pail handle being released after yet another trip to the bulk tank. Sometimes Dad would hum or Herman, our German Shepherd, whose pedigree was of more common lineage, would get into an altercation with one of the dozens of cats. Sometimes we would start talking about some far-flung subject and drive it mercilessly beyond its merits. Often Philip would get us laughing with his rendition of some person or event or we might sing or quarrel.

But mostly, the pulsating suction of the teat cups extracting the warm milk from the full utters and the subsequent air-sucking noise upon completion filled the barn, turning our thoughts inward. It was a good time to do school work if a list of vocabulary words had to be known, or something to memorize, or a creative writing project to think about.

Herman, meanwhile, always found a cozy spot in the hay on the feeding aisles or on the floor near the action, his pointed ears keeping vigil even though his eyes might be closed. Periodically, he'd take a snap at a cat, if it was the wrong cat and came too close.

Dad took care of the myriad assortment of cats and the dogs and puppies. Cats had an incredible capacity for lapping down whole dishes of milk, heads together and bodies fanning out in a circle. Herman always drank what he wanted despite the cats, leaving them to fend for themselves.

There were good cats--the mousers and the mothers, like Tiger. There were bad cats--the parasitic types that hung in the shadows until feeding time; and there were wild cats in the hay mow whose broods lived out their lives in isolation. For various reasons, the cat population rose and fell--but there were always cats around.

The cows in winter stayed inside throughout the day except for a brief respite during the daily barn cleaning. At first our 110-foot barn was cleaned by hand; later a barn cleaner was installed. Backing in the manure spreader and filling it so that all the liquid could be contained was an art. This Dad accomplished himself during the school day and with help from the boys on weekends. Sometimes the spreader and tractor got stuck in the drifted fields and the manure had to be pitched off by hand. Otherwise, the manure was let to pile up until spring.

Cows were funny--predictably unpredictable. In summer, for example, they would head for the woods just as they were to be brought into the barn. Inside they would swish their tails--like a switch--simply to annoy a person while appearing to be perfectly innocent; or two cows might press together, lending their weight to pin a person in between. Sometimes they would step on your foot. And, in spring, they might sneeze or cough, discharging some unpleasantry from either end. Yet, in all, cows were lovable. Their faces were pleasant and reassuring and their soft throats and smooth necks were huggable.

We all had our own duties and responsibilities to perform before heading on into the house and breakfast. There was throwing down the hay. We would climb the wooden steps up to the mow which was a crisp, frosty world of its own, the moist air from below rising in the chutes and crystallizing on the stems and leaves of the hay and on the threads of the binder twine which held the bales together. Somewhere in the dark recesses of the beams, pigeons holed in for the duration. Bales were pitched down the chute, sometimes exploding apart if they hit just right.

And, there were the chickens in the chicken coop that needed to be fed with milled feed and bedded with fresh straw. We collected the eggs from beneath the laying hens; some pecking in retribution. At night a light near their roost extended their day and the radiant heat might have kept them from freezing, even if their drinking water did.

We always figured out the most efficient way to do our chores to facilitate the dash up the drive to the house, stamping the snow off our feet on the porch floor as we arrived, tearing off our barn clothes (that generic term indicating the miracle of Mom's stichery genius, and washing up thoroughly for school or for bed.

Dad had real tenacity; he never complained through all those cold, hard winters, with frost-bitten toes, frozen face and swollen fingers. He rarely, if ever, indulged fevers or sickness, stoically trudging out regardless. Watkin's carbolic salve cured a multitude of maladies including cuts and bruises. The normal sensitivities of hands and feet and back were put aside.

Mom, too, shared in the daily routine--daily washing milk machines and pails which came in rather dirty and went out sparkling clean. Out they'd go: one in each hand; one carried out the machines; one a stack of pails; one the hot water. Meals were orchestrated to meet the milking schedule. The weekly wash hung stiff and frozen on the line or was carried upstairs to hang on lines strung from door hinge to door hinge.

Farm life, despite the work, left an indelible imprint on all of us; there was pride in doing little tasks well. There developed a love of the land and an appreciation for the livelihood that came from it. Winters on the farm provided a true test of the spirit; our family not only endured that test, but thrived, owing much to those practical ethics learned in childhood.