This morning I woke up remembering the calf my grandfather was raising when I was a child in the 1950s. My grandparents named him Skeesiks after a character in the “Gasoline Alley” comic strip. He was much more my size, and friendlier than the two milking cows we had: a big Jersey called Lizzie, and a slightly smaller Holstein named Lorelei. I was told that Skeesiks was “mine.” I didn’t realize until later what a relative term “mine” was in farming.
I would visit Skeesiks every day and took the farm, the animals, and my grandfather all for granted--with a five-year-old’s assumption that things would always be the same. My grandfather died in 1955, the cows were taken away, and my mother informed me, without preamble that they had been sent to the “slaughterhouse.” When my grandfather died, it was the end of the farming for the family. No one wanted to do all the work running a farm entailed.
Why was I remembering all this today, I wondered? As I drove to work, I realized there were new calves at sites all along the road! Two new Scottish Highland cattle were at the neighbors’ house (he now has four); a sleepy red-and-white one stood by the barn across from the little red house by Borders Farm; and, as I got closer to the main barn at Borders, there were more scattered here and there, red-and-white, black-and-white. Had they been born over the weekend? or shipped in from elsewhere? Did they spring anew, like daisies in the field? It didn’t matter, because I had so many calves to look at, little ones, curled in the field with the older cattle, and I was glad that they were in the world even if mine was gone.
Or was he? A English Spiritualist once told me that Skeesiks was still following me around in spirit. He said he had a hard time figuring out what it was at first because it was too big to be a dog, and too small for a pony. I was delighted.
Is it true? Well, why would he guess a calf? It is more convincing for its unlikelihood. I must have quite a crowd following me around by now. When the time comes to cross over, I will be well escorted by an improbable group of farm animals and pets. For me there is no distinction. They were all dearly loved.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Calves
This morning I woke up remembering the calf my grandfather was raising when I was a child in the 1950s. My grandparents named him Skeesiks after a character in the “Gasoline Alley” comic strip. He was much more my size, and friendlier than the two milking cows we had: a big Jersey called Lizzie, and a slightly smaller Holstein named Lorelei. I was told that Skeesiks was “mine.” I didn’t realize until later what a relative term “mine” was in farming.
I would visit Skeesiks every day and took the farm, the animals, and my grandfather all for granted--with a five-year-old’s assumption that things would always be the same. My grandfather died in 1955, the cows were taken away, and my mother informed me, without preamble that they had been sent to the “slaughterhouse.” When my grandfather died, it was the end of the farming for the family. No one wanted to do all the work running a farm entailed.
Why was I remembering all this today, I wondered? As I drove to work, I realized there were new calves at sites all along the road! Two new Scottish Highland cattle were at the neighbors’ house (he now has four); a sleepy red-and-white one stood by the barn across from the little red house by Borders Farm; and, as I got closer to the main barn at Borders, there were more scattered here and there, red-and-white, black-and-white. Had they been born over the weekend? or shipped in from elsewhere? Did they spring anew, like daisies in the field? It didn’t matter, because I had so many calves to look at, little ones, curled in the field with the older cattle, and I was glad that they were in the world even if mine was gone.
Or was he? A English Spiritualist once told me that Skeesiks was still following me around in spirit. He said he had a hard time figuring out what it was at first because it was too big to be a dog, and too small for a pony. I was delighted.
Is it true? Well, why would he guess a calf? It is more convincing for its unlikelihood. I must have quite a crowd following me around by now. When the time comes to cross over, I will be well escorted by an improbable group of farm animals and pets. For me there is no distinction. They were all dearly loved.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
6 comments:
Carol, your gentle elegy evoked memories of my grandfather's calves. I loved to feed them, watching their tongues curl up around the bottles. Their eyes were so huge and trusting; they are the essence of gentleness. So an accompanying calf spirit can't be anything other than good.
Hmmm. My comment did not show up on the blog, so I will try again. So,you may get two of the same!
It read, "Carol, your gentle elegy evoked memories of my grandfather's calves. I loved to feed them, watching their tongues curl up around the bottles. Their eyes were so huge and trusting; they are the essence of gentleness. So, an accompanying calf spirit can't be anything other than good."
Thank you! I like the fact the it posted twice. Tells me you may have one following you.
And just for the record, there were NO calves visible the next two days.
Thinking of your post this afternoon as I looked in vain for calves, I suddenly remembered the heifer pen at grandpa's farm. It was where the parking lot of the Country Club is now. It was a stonewalled enclosure and we were told not to play in it. Of course one day we did, and soon learned a stinging lesson. The pen was full of bristly plants: stinging nettles. We were covered with welts. It seems that nettles really like to grow in manure. I'd like to say that we learned a lesson, but no....the calves were too much of an attraction! I am sure, Carol, that you can give me insight into this experience.
Lesson One: Listen to your elders.
Lesson Two: If it means that much to you, disregard Lesson One.
ROFL
Girlfriend, you sure did lasso that calf!
Post a Comment