“There is a little man in that child who has already stood his ground with the stubborn calves in the barn and the pigs in the feedlot, but there is also the heart of a saint, for he has learned to be patient and kind to those that others consider dumb animals.”
–Sedonia Smith, 1952
From the beginning of life’s path, we learn all sorts of lessons, some large and others seemingly insignificant, but all of it builds the character we carry out into the world.
I was only 8 when my chores on the dairy farm took on what many would consider too much responsibility for a child. But I accepted my assignment with an enormous amount of pride and a great deal of assurance from my father. He felt certain I would make him proud by doing a good job.
My job was to bucket feed the newborn calves. For those who have never done it, it sounds like not much of a job. I have a feeling many Farm and Dairy readers know this can be a whole lot like riding a bucking bronco for the first go-round.
When I first started, all I had was the realization that these newest arrivals were relying on me — and only me — to get the nourishment they needed to survive. I was young, but I had this much going for me, simply because I had grown up surrounded by farm creatures.
The milk was warm. Dad had shown me how to dip a hand down in the warm, slightly sticky colostrum, offering a handful to the young, hungry calf.
“This calf has instincts to drink milk from its mama. You need to show each of them that what is in the bucket is exactly what they want more than anything,” he instructed me.
After that, I was pretty much on my own. Dad had told me to hold the bucket up, keeping it steady. This, I came to realize, was important for several reasons. If I held the bucket steady, the calf would slurp up the milk without getting too terribly impatient, and if everything went just right, not a drop of milk would be spilled.
That is how it goes in a perfect world. Some young calves caught on well. Others seemed determined to break me. There were times in which more from that bucket ended up on me than in the calf in that first go-round. On cold, winter days, I thought my hands might freeze off before I could put gloves back on. I knew if the calf didn’t get enough, we must start over again.
I remember learning the importance of not setting the bucket down, never accidentally feeding the same calf twice, and being observant of a calf’s behavior which might indicate distress. I knew to check the tail end for any hint of scours.
So many kids growing up today have none of the exposure to first jobs like we did, and it is regrettable. I know there are other ways to learn responsibility, but I also know I was lucky to have grown up in the place and time that I did.
There was no better feeling in the world than being praised by Dad for a job well done, often while seated around the kitchen table with the big guys who helped on the farm. “I believe you’re the best calf feeder I’ve ever had!”
Those words felt like pure gold. I walked a little taller on my way out to the barn, knowing I was part of the team now. I wanted to keep proving myself worthy.
