That's my dad, Arnold Salomon on the right with his poddy calf at the calf show in 1938. He didn't win. Notice the footwear (or lack of). From this we can safely assume he is still at school and dairy farming and raising poddy calves is a part time pursuit.
The milking shed photo from the previous post turned up when we were going through Dad's things. Looking now, I realise I hadn't really looked at it before. The people had caught my attention, my granddad in the right milking stall, and my dad, or so he told my sister, is in the left. It was his eyesight that grew dim in later years, not his memory. Grandad's about the age of my children now, perhaps a bit younger and Great Granny Goos with camera in hand, was then about my age now. I remember the Box Brownie she passed on to Grandma. We only see her shadow, her back to the morning sun.
I recall dad and my uncles making our milking shed just like this one about 20 years after the photo was taken. I'd hang around the worksite hoping for a cup of tea from the thermos, milk from a little glass jar and cooled with tank water from an enamel mug. Sometimes I'd have to make do with a drink from the canvas water-bag, the one with the curious porcelaine spout that felt cold and hard on your lips, and always a biscuit or piece of cake. Mum'd pack extra.
The men cut the slots in those fence post for the rails to fit in. In the winter time, when the ground was slushy with mud and manure, we'd climb the fence and walk around the yard on the top rail. You could get from the gate near the water trough to the shed. The last post was a big one, too far to step across to the concrete. It meant at least one foot would go in the slush after all.
On closer inspection I notice that the shed is equipped with a milking machine. I imagine that's why Great Granny took the picture, or is it her new camera, or perhaps it is a particularly bright morning and the idea just took her fancy? The dairy has a pretty modern labour saving set-up for its time. Many farmers would be milking over 100 cows twice a day, and the children put in long pants and boots as soon as they lost interest in school.
All the cows were know by name, including "Satan", the one with a bad temper. You had to keep an eye on her otherwise she would bail you up against the rails and try to toss you with her head. You weren't in any real danger though, just don't turn your back on her, and if you did lose your nerve, you'd scarper up the rails as quick as lightning, small heart beating through your thin shirt. Then when standing atop the fence post you could look down on the pitiful, malevolent creature and relish your escape feeling like you're king of the cow-yard.
Standing there, bare feet on concrete, l smell the warm frothy milk squirting into the bucket, sounding hollow, then throaty as it fills, mingled with other smells, oiled leather, bridles, saddles and hay. I feel the huge presence of those contented creatures. I hear slap on the back raising a cloud of dust as they complete their morning quota. Pats of cow manure steam on frosty grass, my bare feet aching on icy ground. Someone yells, "Where's you shoes?". Us kids had no time to put on shoes. There was too much going on in the cow shed.
"Clean your feet before you come in!" calls mum.
bacon and wood smoke
grassy dew drops sparkling
catching memories
Tags: davidsalomon, farm life, nostalgia
