I knew without answering the phone that it was bad news. A feeling of dread welled up from within as soon as I saw the caller ID. We had nearly reached our destination; I had less than an hour to go, but handed the phone to my wife. At the end of a long day, I simply did not want to deal with what I knew was going to be unpleasant.
It is an atrociously difficult thing, to take time away from an active dairy farm. I had planned a two-week trip down the East Coast with my friends from Australia. Realistically, this translates to three weeks of preparation leading up to the trip, and one week of catch-up work once I return. Although I never worry about it, the cows, chores, and inevitable "what-if" scenarios are never far from my mind whenever I am away.
To put it in perspective, in order to comfortably take off for those two weeks, there were as many as five people to call on, in my stead. One person was hired to milk the cows. Since the cows absolutely, positively, must be milked, regardless of any emergency that could conceivably pop up, I also had two separate people lined up, as backups. Another person prepared the feed ration for the cows, while still another tended to the various youngstock housed at our two farmsteads. Typically, my parents are around to provide oversight should something go wrong, and are usually happy to help out.
All of this represents nothing more than the daily aspects of the grind; a lot of people coming together, just to get the day-to-day chores completed - nothing more, nothing less. I certainly would not take leave should there be hay to be made.
Making good-quality hay is one of the single most important aspects of running a dairy farm. There is a reason why people who have never gone out and actually made hay use expressions like, "Make hay when the sun shines..." Take my word for it, cutting a field of alfalfa at just the right time, and getting it properly processed is one of the focal points of maintaining a successful operation. I typically would never, under any circumstances, go on vacation when there is hay to be made.
I say "typically," because there is always an exception to every rule. In a normal growing season, we take the first cutting of alfalfa at the end of May. Second cutting is taken toward the end of June, and in a really good year, third cutting can be made in early August. This leaves the month of July wide open, free from the necessity of having to make hay - at least in a normal year.
With this in mind, I specifically planned my East Coast extravaganza with the Aussies for mid-July. After all, like I laughed to them on the phone months prior when there was still snow on the ground, "We're never making hay over Independence Day."
Of course, 2013 was not a normal year. A wet, cool, and late spring meant that we were not able to take the first cutting of alfalfa until the first part of June. Sadistically, the fields of alfalfa would be in their prime - just in the bud stage, immediately prior to bursting forth in brilliant purple bloom - at precisely the same time Andrew, Belinda, Lachlan, Mitchell, and my wife and I were strolling the sacred ground at Gettysburg.
Under any other circumstance, I would postpone the trip. However, Andrew and his family had locked in thousands of dollars' worth of airline tickets and were traveling halfway across the globe. Our rental car and hotels were booked months in advance. Exasperated, I made the decision to defer cutting second-crop hay until I returned in late July. It would lose its nutritional value with each passing day, I would take a tangible hit on milk income as a result, but that was my only realistic option, given the circumstances.
With everything else to think about: making connections, hosting a family of four down the East Coast of the U.S.; not to mention the contingencies of leaving two farms and a herd of cows, the last thing I wanted to worry about was someone else making my hay.
Only one "problem" remained - convincing my dad.
Our partnership is such that I buy forage from him, and he is paid as a percentage of the gross milk income - not an uncommon arrangement for father-son type operations. In this twist, if I waited until I returned in late-July to harvest alfalfa, he would also take a pay cut.
I felt irritated in the weeks leading up to our trip. I cursed the weather, the late spring, all of those autonomous conditions working together, conspiring against me. It's hard enough to get away, damn near impossible. Now this?
I wallowed in a mood that bordered between self-pity and sheer frustration, but knew Dad was right. Knowing that he would make hay with or without me, I devised an elegant solution. I called upon a dear friend, someone who has helped us regularly in the past. He knows the operation inside and out, and is always more than happy to lend a hand, "So long as I don't have to milk cows."
Above and beyond all of the other connections and coordination, I hired him to help make hay in my absence. Finally, a solution to suit all - even Dad was pleased. I left the farm feeling as though everything was accounted for, and prophetically remarked, "Should anything happen, call me - I'm only a phone call away."
Thus when my mobile went off, I groaned with dread. I knew what this was about.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
It is an atrociously difficult thing, to take time away from an active dairy farm. I had planned a two-week trip down the East Coast with my friends from Australia. Realistically, this translates to three weeks of preparation leading up to the trip, and one week of catch-up work once I return. Although I never worry about it, the cows, chores, and inevitable "what-if" scenarios are never far from my mind whenever I am away.
To put it in perspective, in order to comfortably take off for those two weeks, there were as many as five people to call on, in my stead. One person was hired to milk the cows. Since the cows absolutely, positively, must be milked, regardless of any emergency that could conceivably pop up, I also had two separate people lined up, as backups. Another person prepared the feed ration for the cows, while still another tended to the various youngstock housed at our two farmsteads. Typically, my parents are around to provide oversight should something go wrong, and are usually happy to help out.
All of this represents nothing more than the daily aspects of the grind; a lot of people coming together, just to get the day-to-day chores completed - nothing more, nothing less. I certainly would not take leave should there be hay to be made.
Making good-quality hay is one of the single most important aspects of running a dairy farm. There is a reason why people who have never gone out and actually made hay use expressions like, "Make hay when the sun shines..." Take my word for it, cutting a field of alfalfa at just the right time, and getting it properly processed is one of the focal points of maintaining a successful operation. I typically would never, under any circumstances, go on vacation when there is hay to be made.
I say "typically," because there is always an exception to every rule. In a normal growing season, we take the first cutting of alfalfa at the end of May. Second cutting is taken toward the end of June, and in a really good year, third cutting can be made in early August. This leaves the month of July wide open, free from the necessity of having to make hay - at least in a normal year.
With this in mind, I specifically planned my East Coast extravaganza with the Aussies for mid-July. After all, like I laughed to them on the phone months prior when there was still snow on the ground, "We're never making hay over Independence Day."
Of course, 2013 was not a normal year. A wet, cool, and late spring meant that we were not able to take the first cutting of alfalfa until the first part of June. Sadistically, the fields of alfalfa would be in their prime - just in the bud stage, immediately prior to bursting forth in brilliant purple bloom - at precisely the same time Andrew, Belinda, Lachlan, Mitchell, and my wife and I were strolling the sacred ground at Gettysburg.
Under any other circumstance, I would postpone the trip. However, Andrew and his family had locked in thousands of dollars' worth of airline tickets and were traveling halfway across the globe. Our rental car and hotels were booked months in advance. Exasperated, I made the decision to defer cutting second-crop hay until I returned in late July. It would lose its nutritional value with each passing day, I would take a tangible hit on milk income as a result, but that was my only realistic option, given the circumstances.
With everything else to think about: making connections, hosting a family of four down the East Coast of the U.S.; not to mention the contingencies of leaving two farms and a herd of cows, the last thing I wanted to worry about was someone else making my hay.
Only one "problem" remained - convincing my dad.
Our partnership is such that I buy forage from him, and he is paid as a percentage of the gross milk income - not an uncommon arrangement for father-son type operations. In this twist, if I waited until I returned in late-July to harvest alfalfa, he would also take a pay cut.
I felt irritated in the weeks leading up to our trip. I cursed the weather, the late spring, all of those autonomous conditions working together, conspiring against me. It's hard enough to get away, damn near impossible. Now this?
I wallowed in a mood that bordered between self-pity and sheer frustration, but knew Dad was right. Knowing that he would make hay with or without me, I devised an elegant solution. I called upon a dear friend, someone who has helped us regularly in the past. He knows the operation inside and out, and is always more than happy to lend a hand, "So long as I don't have to milk cows."
Above and beyond all of the other connections and coordination, I hired him to help make hay in my absence. Finally, a solution to suit all - even Dad was pleased. I left the farm feeling as though everything was accounted for, and prophetically remarked, "Should anything happen, call me - I'm only a phone call away."
Thus when my mobile went off, I groaned with dread. I knew what this was about.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
