August 5, 1963
Monday, 52-58 high, cloudy, rainy, cool. I sewed and mended. Clifton started work at Jefferson. Our cows still gone. David and Wayne looked for them. Mrs. Bolen called 4:30 and said they were down there.
Comment: Damned cows out again. This time they headed south, not north up the mountain. Sound like they were gone about a day which is a pretty long time for them to be gone. The cows played a major part in our lives on the hill. We were always doing something that revolved around the cows, haying, fixing fence, cleaning the barn, butchering, going after calves, selling the calves, de-horning, going after them, spreading their manure, buying cattle feed and salt blocks and always milking them, twice a day, seven days a week, year around. The cows had different personalities and we came to know which were the rebels that we had to watch and which were the docile critters that would always go meekly to their stanchions and wait to be fed and milked. But we also learned that they were always animals and as such, could act totally unpredictable in any situation and it was very dangerous to anthropomorphise them. Many a farmer learned that the hard way when a pet bull or cow with calf suddenly turned them and either injured them severely or killed them. "According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, from 1992-1997, more than
75,000 workers received injuries and 375 workers were killed from animal related injuries. Cattle are responsible for most injuries caused by farm animals." So, as the old Texas Ranger said when asked by a city dude if his loaded and cocked six-gun on his hip wasn't dangerous: "Dangerous? You damn betcha!"
Here is a song about an injury my cousin Paul Ellis suffered from "the Ayrshire on the end"
“Paul’s been kicked”, Aunt Madeline said, through the old crank phone we had
“A window’s broke, an artery’s cut and he’s bleeding pretty bad.”
“He was in the barn just doing chores, gettin’ milk ready to send
When he got kicked through a window by that Ayeshire on the end.”
So Mom came running to our barn where we were milking cows
And said, “LaVerne, go get the car, Paul needs a doctor now!”
So we pulled off the milk machines, shut down the vacuum pump
And in a fifty-one green Chevy, both of us did jump
We made the mile to Uncle Earle’s, the peddle to the floor
And came up fast to a skidding stop beside the red barn door
Paul was there beside the barn, both arm’s were wrapped in white
We could see the bright blood seeping through and his eyes and lips were tight
“I should’ve killed her long ago”, he said with a rueful grin
“That bitch gets out and kicks like hell now see the shape I’m in.”
The nearest doc in Middleburg was twenty-miles away
And we’ve never drove that Guinea road as fast as on that day
We took him to Doc Lyons, got his bone deep cuts all stitched
And he mostly said on the ride back home, “I’m gonna kill that bitch”
But he healed fast and has the scars and he never killed that cow
But I’ll bet it all comes back to him when he thinks about it now
That summer night, the shattered glass, those bruised and bloody arms
And the times that only can be had by working on a farm
And I bet he shares with a lot of us a kind of soothing fact.
If you’re raised up on a dairy farm, life’s easy after that.
75,000 workers received injuries and 375 workers were killed from animal related injuries. Cattle are responsible for most injuries caused by farm animals." So, as the old Texas Ranger said when asked by a city dude if his loaded and cocked six-gun on his hip wasn't dangerous: "Dangerous? You damn betcha!"
Here is a song about an injury my cousin Paul Ellis suffered from "the Ayrshire on the end"
Kicked By Cow Talking Blues, Three Chord One Take And To Hell With It
Kicked, Original By Gerry Hubbard
“Paul’s been kicked”, Aunt Madeline said, through the old crank phone we had
“A window’s broke, an artery’s cut and he’s bleeding pretty bad.”
“He was in the barn just doing chores, gettin’ milk ready to send
When he got kicked through a window by that Ayeshire on the end.”
So Mom came running to our barn where we were milking cows
And said, “LaVerne, go get the car, Paul needs a doctor now!”
So we pulled off the milk machines, shut down the vacuum pump
And in a fifty-one green Chevy, both of us did jump
We made the mile to Uncle Earle’s, the peddle to the floor
And came up fast to a skidding stop beside the red barn door
Paul was there beside the barn, both arm’s were wrapped in white
We could see the bright blood seeping through and his eyes and lips were tight
“I should’ve killed her long ago”, he said with a rueful grin
“That bitch gets out and kicks like hell now see the shape I’m in.”
The nearest doc in Middleburg was twenty-miles away
And we’ve never drove that Guinea road as fast as on that day
We took him to Doc Lyons, got his bone deep cuts all stitched
And he mostly said on the ride back home, “I’m gonna kill that bitch”
But he healed fast and has the scars and he never killed that cow
But I’ll bet it all comes back to him when he thinks about it now
That summer night, the shattered glass, those bruised and bloody arms
And the times that only can be had by working on a farm
And I bet he shares with a lot of us a kind of soothing fact.
If you’re raised up on a dairy farm, life’s easy after that.
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