A Short Tale of Cows and Cats One of my responsibilities on the farm involved herding, feeding, milking, and other milk related tasks as were needing done at any given time. A quick explaination of the photos above first. On top left is a milk can of the type we used to collect the milk from the milking machines and hand milking. Next to the can is a butter churn of the type my aunt and Mrs F used to make the butter we sold. Next is a Holstein cow which made up most of our herd, as they give the most milk overall. Below that are butter churns of the ancient type my aunt and F's wife used to make the butter for our own use, as they claimed the old way was better tasting. I can't find any fault with their reasoning, as they produced the sweetest, salty, home churned butter I've ever tasted before or since those wonderful days. Then is a Jersey cow, we only had a small number of these, probably around fifteen at any time. The milk these cows produce contains the most butterfat and was used for producing butter and our household use. Going down, we find a mechanical milker of the type we used and an example of one being used. We had four of these, and they were the original reason for the generator being purchased. Lastly, we have a Guernsey cow. We had quite a few of these, around twenty-five usually. Their milk was mixed with that from the Holsteins, and comprised the milk we sold. A bit of the Guernsey milk was set aside to settle, and then put through the cream separator and the cream bottled for those wanting cream delivered along with their milk. As we had no real cold storage, other than the cold cellar, we attempted to keep the herd and milk production equal to the sales. The milk that was left over from the Holsteins and Guernseys was fed to the pigs as the liquid component of the pig slop. In this way, we generally managed to balance things so nothing went to waste. Occasionally if we had a large excess of milk, F would take some to his produce store to sell in the small city. Our milk deliveries usually required two or more runs, due to the number of customers being in the hundreds in four towns. This was when pasturized and homogenized milk was considered less healthy than raw milk from healthy cows. It also tastes one helluva lot better! We were the only farm around willing to comply with the strict laws and regulations governing the sale of raw milk to the public. One of the requirements was that a licensed veterinarian visit the farm every second day and test each cow for disease, sores, etc and the equipment cleanliness. We always passed the probings of two veterinarians with ease, as R was a stickler for detail and ensuring the safety of anything he sold. We also had several milk goats that my aunt tended and that provided househol milk only. Their milk was always my favorite, and to this day I'll go out of my way occasionally to get a bottle of raw milk and goat milk. One neat thing about goat milk is that it comes from the animal homogenized, as the milkfat stays in suspension in goat milk, unlike that of cows which rises to the top as cream. My aunt usually preferred goat milk for cooking as well, as she claimed it made batter smoother. I couldn't prove it one way or the other, except to reveal that I've never tasted cakes and pies as good as hers were. One aspect of selling raw milk, was that when the vets discovered a problem cow, the cow had to be put in a separate area at the east end of the barn until it was cleared by the vet to return to the herd. At any one time there would be from three to ten cows in this quarantine area for various reasons. The problems were always just routine things like raw teats, bacterial infection requiring antibiotics, etc. The cows on antibiotics were cleared for milk sales as soon as the infection cleared, but R wouldn't sell their milk for an additional five days to allow all the antibiotics to leave their systems. He was deathly against selling milk with any medication in it, unlike today, where the milk in many states contains antibiotics at all times. Thankfully, antibiotics and bovine growth hormone in milk in Maine must be clearly labeled, so we can avoid the milk if we wish. One truth about all farms, without exception that I know of, is that they have resident rodent populations of various species, numbers, and habitat. They also have those critters that prey upon the little rodent residents. These generally come in three varieties, snakes, avian carnivores, and little old feral barn kitties. I use the term kitty jokingly, as these felines are not kitties. They are domestic cat varieties that have become semi-wild. They are universally known as "barn cats". The non-poisonous snakes here, the owls and other feathered rodent eaters can't even come close to matching the voracious appetites barn cats have for rodents. Their numbers seem to swell and ebb in direct proportion to the population of the rodents. This rambling tale has taken a long route to get to the memory that gave birth to it. As the quarantined cows had to be hand milked so as not to injure them further or cause contamination of the milking equipment, they became my little task twice a day. Now from this experience came the chance to study feline behaviors and foibles. I'm convinced that cats can tell time, and I know that feral barn cats have a pecking order. Normally these furballs will avoid any human contact whatsoever, but I discovered, much to my amusement, that all rules are suspended twice a day during hand milking time. Before I arrived on the scene, my aunt did the quarantine cow milking, and it was she who showed me the delights of playing with the barn cats. As I'd arrive with my armload of milk pails, a small army of the little cats would magically appear, and, if I were late, they'd be awaiting my arrival. Once they saw which cow I'd do first, they'd arrange themselves by social standing. It took me several milkings to notice this, and my aunt claimed she'd never paid that much attention to them. I guess being a young and overly curious lad contributed to my closer observations. At first they just seemed to all want milk, then I noticed the same ones always went first. As soon as I started really monitoring them, it was apparent that the oldest toms went first, then the old females, and so forth to the very newest wobbly kitten on its initial milk outing. What started as simply pouring milk into a few old bowls, put there for that purpose, evolved into a neat interaction twice daily with these amazing creatures. One day I wanted a certain cat to move away from a smaller one and, lacking anything to throw, I squirted milk from the cow at him. From this I discovered cat acrobatics, as, rather than leaving, the old cat jumped up and got a large percentage of the milk stream in his mouth. He then sat waiting expectantly for me to repeat the squirting, which I did. Each time I shot a stream of milk in his direction, he'd intercept it and make a crazy attempt to catch it all. After a few times I was laughing so hard I had to stop, catch my breath, and dry my eyes. It was then I saw him sitting majestically and licking all the excess milk from his drenched body. From this silly beginning, grew a little game I played every day I milked, until I left the farm for good. The cats figured out quickly that I liked to shoot streams of warm milk at them, and so would now line up in a rough queue awaiting their turn at the milk stream. As we grew more practiced at our little diversion, they'd line up along the top of the low stall wall and, as I directed a stream at one, it would jump up and back to the floor, and try to get every bit of it in its mouth. This provided for some rather unique cat leaps, as they all developed their own style of milk chasing. When I tired of the game or had to get back to work, I simply filled their bowls and they descended on them as though they'd never had milk before. I still wasn't allowed to touch any of them, but it did progress to the point where a momma cat would bring her babies out when they were big enough and teach them to "chase milk". And that's the end of a silly little tale of a boy and some cats with too much time and imagination. It still remains as one of my best farm memories and I've loved cats ever since. Hope you enjoyed sharing the memory with me and, until next time, take care and drink your milk.

An Unexpected Treat During the latter part of my first summer on the farm, I was surprised one morning, after loading the milk for delivery, by the appearance of Dad in his old Buick with a boat in tow. The type of boat he had with him is known as a Grand Laker and is a square sterned canoe designed and constructed specifically to ply the large lakes in Maine. These boats, as can be seen in the top photo, are considerably larger than a normal canoe, and the squared-off stern allows an outboard motor to be mounted as in the middle photo. The middle and bottom photos are of the actual lake where we were, unbeknownst to me, about to spend a glorious week together. The middle photo shows a canoe beyond the island visible in the far distance in the bottom photo. The bottom photo shows the narrow mouth of the lake behind the dam where boats are put into the lake. I don't know the exact size of the lake, but it has enough open area that waves of a yard(meter) or more in height aren't rare on windy days. It's precisely for that reason the Grand Laker canoe was developed, as it easily tackles the worst waves and winds the lakes in the area serve up. It also has a shallow draft that enables it to be maneuvered up the shallowest of the streams that feed the lakes. As I ran to greet Dad, my aunt called to me from the pantry doorway. Looking back, I could see she had uncle R's old army surplus duffle bag with her. Seems they had all planned this trip secretly to surprise me, and my aunt had the duffle bag packed and ready to go with enough clothing to last me several days. I was still confused as to what was going on until Dad called to me from the car window to get my things and not to forget my fishing gear. I numbly obeyed and, as I finished piling it all into the car's trunk and the boat, My aunt beckoned me to her one last time and handed me a paper bag filled with fresh bread, rolls, and homemade doughnuts. Running back to the passenger side door, I clambered happily into the huge old vehicle and inquired as to where we were going. I had it in mind that we were headed down the road the six miles or so to the boat landing of the lake where F and R had their cottage. When Dad turned in the yard and entered the highway going in the opposite direction my curiosity grew. Dad urged me to just sit and enjoy the ride and said I'd see where we were headed shortly. I did as instructed, but my puzzlement grew as we passed first by the road to town and the river landing, then several more roads leading to the lakes with which I was familiar. When we passed the road to the lake with the last of the cottages I knew to belong to relatives, pure confusion set in. Finally, Dad turned off on a road that was to be travelled by me almost daily in my teen year summers. At the end of the road is a small settlement and several sporting lodges, along with a public boat landing on the biggest lake in the area. I'd never been there before and at first look I thought it rather funny that we'd come fifty miles or so to enter onto what appeared to be a rather small lake. What I soon realized, was that I was seeing only the narrow strip of water that led to a vast lake, that in turn was connected directly to several more large bodies of water. This narrow bit of water is pictured above, and above it the canoist is at the beginning of the larger area of water. Dad stopped at the boat ramp and we got out to load all our gear into the canoe before putting it into the water. He then undid the canoe's tie-down straps and backed the trailer into the lake, allowing me to wade in and guide it back to the shore beside the ramp so we could safely enter the vessel. After pushing off and paddling out a short way, Dad lowered the outboard motor into the water, pumped the gas bulb on the tank several times, and with a quick pull on the starter cord the motor roared to life. Dad made sure we each had on life vests and then pointed the bow toward the lake that was his goal. I was still under the impression we were going for a one or two night camping trip and that my duffle held R's army surplus tent. As we motored onto the large portion of the lake, the canoe was suddenly subjected to a stiff wind and waves larger than any I'd ever seen on a lake before. They looked more like the waves we saw on the salt water in the Bay of Funday when we went to buy fresh fish on the piers, twenty-five or thirty miles south of the farm. Dad wasn't concerned however, which allowed me to finally relax some and enjoy being on the lake. Our final destination was to prove to be the cottage of one of Dad's co-workers that was ten or more miles up the lake and accessable only by water in summer, and by crossing the lake ice in winter. It was this remoteness that had attracted Dad to the cottage when he'd gone ice fishing with his friend the previous winter, and had stayed at the cottage for several days. As it turned out, this helped create one of the best memories I have of that distant time. As we neared the cottage, Dad slowed the canoe and, when he saw it was shallow enough to be safe, instructed me to enter the water and "pull us ashore" as he put it. This was easily done and Dad exited the craft onto the beach and proceeded to pull it up onto the land. After we'd unloaded most of the gear, Dad removed the motor and carried it and the gas tank up onto the porch where there was a crude stand on which to store both. The two of us then pulled the boat completely onto the logs, placed in a row like railroad ties parallel to the water, that served to protect the painted canvass bottom from the rough, rocky beach. I was still awestruck by this turn of events and had a head full of questions, but, knowing Dad, I patiently waited for him to explain things as I knew he would eventually. We entered the camp and Dad told me to unpack my things on the lower of the two bunks in an opening opposite what appeared to be a crude kitchen area. When I had done so, he unpacked his old army duffle onto the top bunk. We then put the items neatly into the four drawers of an old bureau at the foot of the bunks. It was at that time Dad surprised me by pulling several bottles of my favorite soda, Moxie, from his second duffle, followed by jars of homemade jam, a can of coffee, and a large jar of popcorn. He also had several cans of potatos and vegetables for our meals. It was about then I noticed there was no ice box nor ice to fill it, also no electricity of course, so I asked him how we were to cool things like the soda. He led me out of the back door and into the trees a short way to a small, but fairly deep spring that he said was our "refridgerator" for the next week. A week!! I couldn't believe what I'd heard and my head was still reeling as Dad went back to the camp carrying the fishing net he'd retrieved from a tree beside the spring. Back in the cottage he piled the soda bottles, a jar of cream, and a jar filled with home churned butter on the net, tied it into a pouch, and carried it to the spring. Once there, he unwound a rope I'd not noticed from the tree that had held the net and, after tying on the filled net, lowered it into the spring until it rested some ten feet or so down on the bottom. He then led me back to the camp and off into the woods in the opposite direction of the spring until we came upon what was obviously an outhouse. Saying there was only one more thing to show me, we went back to the camp and around to the large rocks down the beach a few hundred feet or so. Following his lead and clambering onto the rocks, I saw what was clearly a compost pile with the peelings of an orange still identifiable on top. Beside it was a small shovel which Dad grabbed, along with one of the many empty cans there, and started digging in the composted matter for fishing worms. Once we'd secured enough worms to keep us from digging more for a bit, we returned to the camp and collected our fishing rods and a small leather pouch with extra hooks and other necessities. Dad set out along the beach, explaining that we'd find a stream in which to fish before long. He was right, and we headed inland up the stream in search of our evening meal. This proved to be easily obtained, as within the space of an hour we had caught several large brook trout and were headed back to the camp. By this time it was early evening and the light in the cottage was becoming dim as we carried in our cleaned fish dinner. As we lit the kerosene lanterns and kindled the fire in the pot-bellied wood stove, it slowly sank into my mind that this was really happening, and that it was going to last a full week before the grind of daily life retook control of our schedules. The next few days were filled with swimming, hiking, fishing from the boat and in the nearby streams, and best of all, evenings alone with Dad. During those quiet evenings, listening to the cries of loons and owls, we popped popcorn in a wire basket, ate fresh fish, and talked about anything and everything. As it turned out, this was to be the first of four such trips, along with an additional two in winter for ice fishing. I think it was these trips when I came to really know the quiet man who was my Dad, and to appreciate the time spent alone with nature. We'd pass hours together withous saying a word, just enjoying the beautiful surroundings and each other's company. That, is the memory I have when I think of Dad, and it's as fresh today as it was then. Take care until next time.