Getting Along

My parents were rather economically challenged as some would say, others would put that more bluntly and say they were dirt poor.  In the late 1930s, with the “Great Depression” yet ongoing after a decade, they learned of a dairy farm that somehow might be in their possible grasp.  A local real estate mogul had purchased much property at tax sales during the decade and was making a killing with the selling of his astute purchasing power.  My parents had been offered the chance to buy any of three vacant dairy farms all in the same area.

One of the three was a 119 acre place, about half unimproved land formerly used as cattle pasture, and the remainder cleared and productive acreage.  It had been their dream to own their own operational dairy farm ever since their marriage in 1925.  After more than 16 years it was finally all coming together.  The place was selling for the meagerly price of $5,500, and with a time payment plan that they could see their way clear to pay with a little effort, mixed with some good luck of course.

Now, as always there was a bit of a drawback to such a good deal.  There was no electricity on the place, and no hope of getting any in the near future.  A fine old gentleman living next door to the farm my parents had selected had no particular thought in mind that he needed, nor wanted, this new-fangled electricity stuff.  No one in his ancestry had ever needed it, he didn’t need it, and it would be up to his children if they wanted it or not, but that would be after his death, and certainly not one minute earlier.

So it was that my parents with their eight children moved onto their dream farm on Halloween, October 31, 1941.  At first they were able to place a dozen milk cattle in the barn each morning and evening, and all milking was done by hand into 12 quart stainless steel pails.  The milk was in turn strained through a special filtering cloth into 10 gallon cans for transfer to a milk plant where it was further handled and sent to New York City for consumption.

Mother was the best hand-milker and usually milked four of our bovine friends, while father milked two or three, and the older boys managed the remainder.  It was only a matter of weeks until the days had shortened to where we needed artificial light to complete the milking chores at both 6 am and pm.  This meant lighting a kerosene lantern in the house, carrying it to the barn, through whatever weather was in between, and then lighting another kept in the barn.  The two lanterns were hung at strategic places from the ceiling of the stable while the chores progressed.

As we moved about the barn our bodies cast long shadows into the distant corners.  As the milking was being completed, the ones not doing that were feeding hay to the cattle, insuring they had proper bedding for the day or night, as the case happened to be, and feeding the calves.  The day’s accumulation of manure had been removed at the end of the school day by the boys, as my father was working off the farm to make ends meet financially.  While removing the manure the cattle were let out into a barnyard where there was a water trough.  Some of us boys hand pumped their water for them at both ends of the day.  Before or after that chore the hay was thrown down from the mow to the manger for later feeding.

Child labor laws!  Are you joking?  If it weren’t for us boys doing our part none of us would have had a roof over our heads.  We were only too happy to chip in, in any way we were able.  My parent’s grandson owns that farm yet today so we must have done something right.