As I sit here typing this, I have a commanding view of the East River. Yesterday Ashley and I walked the Brooklyn Bridge. Today we watched a Broadway Musical. Tomorrow we'll tour Ellis Island. Actually, it is nothing short of a miracle that I am here at all. I have dedicated thousands of words throughout this column to the virtues of travel and the wonderful sites that wait beyond the county line. But, I have never answered the one recurring question I get from readers: "How do you do it?"
The trouble with taking time away from a farm is that there are an overwhelming amount of details to work out, which must be done at the last possible minute. I cannot put fresh bedding down a week in advance; I cannot prepare feed for the animals five days beforehand.
No matter what, the night before I go on any vacation is destined to be a late night, if I actually do get any sleep. That's OK; so long as I get my bags packed in advance.
Monday and Tuesday mornings I awake. In my head, I plan out the week. We're scheduled to fly out on Saturday, which seems like a lifetime away. I start with the low priorities. I have a slug of pregnant cows due to calve soon, and a few that are late-term. Monday is spent moving these animals around and consolidating calf pens. I give the automated feed systems a once-over, to ensure that they'll run smoothly during my absence. At this point I'm feeling good, maybe this will be the vacation where I actually get it right. I balance my checkbook, decide how much cash to set aside for the trip, and double-check with my relief workers.
At this point, everything is falling into place.
Wednesday I get thrown a curve ball. I have come to learn that in times like these, expect the unexpected. One of the cows has come down with something; she's lost weight, down on milk, and has a depressed temperature. One veterinary call produces no tangible results - there is nothing clinically wrong with this girl, so I put her in a sick pen to keep an eye on her. Still, I'm only three days away. Wednesday evening I stay out after 10:00, getting bedding and hay bales arranged; one less hassle for the people who will be milking for me while I am gone.
Thursday is completely shot - I have a speaking engagement in the morning, my sister is in town so we meet for lunch, and then I attend a writers' workshop. It is after 5 p.m. when I get home. Thursday evening I am out past 10 p.m., preparing details for what is bound to be a stress-fest on Friday. Now I have realized, it's hitting the fan.
Friday morning - one day remaining. Where has this week gone? My milk check arrives so I run into town to get cash and supplies. Great - here's another curve ball. While cleaning the cow yard I accidentally clip a gate with the skid loader and break a hinge.
In three years, I have never done this. The hinge is a special part that must be fabricated, so I break out the welder and improvise something that is better than it was in the first place - go me! Moments upon wrapping up this curve ball, I am thrown another.
There, standing in the barnyard amongst a herd of curious mothers, is a brand new baby calf. I look heavenwards and literally exclaim, "Are you kidding me?" No cows were due to calve for two more weeks. Should I be glad that this happened now, while I was still home, or irate that it happened at all? Normally I would be happy, but a new calf adds a half-hour to my routine, and extra details for my relief help. It is at this time that I seriously question if I should leave at all.
Milking time on Friday evening. I am late. I still have to clean the cow yard, bed the cows, bed the heifers, and prepare 4,000 pounds of feed for the weekend. I tell Ashley that one more curve-ball, and she's going to New York City by herself. She responds by putting on her work clothes, and coming to the farm to help. My relief milker shows up, and I lay out the details for him. He looks me in the eye and says, "No problem - don't worry about anything." Who says good help is hard to find?
It is 9 p.m. when I finish milking. It is a perfect evening, the moon full, warm, and unimpeded. I actually work outside with no headlights; I can see better without them. I clean the yard, mix extra feed, and bed the cows. At 1 a.m. I bed the heifers. I double-check and leave extra notes detailing everything. It is 2 a.m. when I finally get home.Actually, I did quite well; I got two and a half hours of sleep Friday night. Saturday morning I milk the cows. The sick cow is better, the new mother and calf strong and healthy. I can't help but think that the girls are giving me a positive sendoff. In order to make our flight, Ashley and I must leave Monroe by 10 a.m. It is 9:30 when I arrive home. Oh yeah, I still have to pack.
As you know by now, we made it. As I sit here typing, with this incredible view, I have almost forgotten the stress that preceded this trip. In the end, I suppose it only makes the vacation that much more sacred. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a beer.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The trouble with taking time away from a farm is that there are an overwhelming amount of details to work out, which must be done at the last possible minute. I cannot put fresh bedding down a week in advance; I cannot prepare feed for the animals five days beforehand.
No matter what, the night before I go on any vacation is destined to be a late night, if I actually do get any sleep. That's OK; so long as I get my bags packed in advance.
Monday and Tuesday mornings I awake. In my head, I plan out the week. We're scheduled to fly out on Saturday, which seems like a lifetime away. I start with the low priorities. I have a slug of pregnant cows due to calve soon, and a few that are late-term. Monday is spent moving these animals around and consolidating calf pens. I give the automated feed systems a once-over, to ensure that they'll run smoothly during my absence. At this point I'm feeling good, maybe this will be the vacation where I actually get it right. I balance my checkbook, decide how much cash to set aside for the trip, and double-check with my relief workers.
At this point, everything is falling into place.
Wednesday I get thrown a curve ball. I have come to learn that in times like these, expect the unexpected. One of the cows has come down with something; she's lost weight, down on milk, and has a depressed temperature. One veterinary call produces no tangible results - there is nothing clinically wrong with this girl, so I put her in a sick pen to keep an eye on her. Still, I'm only three days away. Wednesday evening I stay out after 10:00, getting bedding and hay bales arranged; one less hassle for the people who will be milking for me while I am gone.
Thursday is completely shot - I have a speaking engagement in the morning, my sister is in town so we meet for lunch, and then I attend a writers' workshop. It is after 5 p.m. when I get home. Thursday evening I am out past 10 p.m., preparing details for what is bound to be a stress-fest on Friday. Now I have realized, it's hitting the fan.
Friday morning - one day remaining. Where has this week gone? My milk check arrives so I run into town to get cash and supplies. Great - here's another curve ball. While cleaning the cow yard I accidentally clip a gate with the skid loader and break a hinge.
In three years, I have never done this. The hinge is a special part that must be fabricated, so I break out the welder and improvise something that is better than it was in the first place - go me! Moments upon wrapping up this curve ball, I am thrown another.
There, standing in the barnyard amongst a herd of curious mothers, is a brand new baby calf. I look heavenwards and literally exclaim, "Are you kidding me?" No cows were due to calve for two more weeks. Should I be glad that this happened now, while I was still home, or irate that it happened at all? Normally I would be happy, but a new calf adds a half-hour to my routine, and extra details for my relief help. It is at this time that I seriously question if I should leave at all.
Milking time on Friday evening. I am late. I still have to clean the cow yard, bed the cows, bed the heifers, and prepare 4,000 pounds of feed for the weekend. I tell Ashley that one more curve-ball, and she's going to New York City by herself. She responds by putting on her work clothes, and coming to the farm to help. My relief milker shows up, and I lay out the details for him. He looks me in the eye and says, "No problem - don't worry about anything." Who says good help is hard to find?
It is 9 p.m. when I finish milking. It is a perfect evening, the moon full, warm, and unimpeded. I actually work outside with no headlights; I can see better without them. I clean the yard, mix extra feed, and bed the cows. At 1 a.m. I bed the heifers. I double-check and leave extra notes detailing everything. It is 2 a.m. when I finally get home.Actually, I did quite well; I got two and a half hours of sleep Friday night. Saturday morning I milk the cows. The sick cow is better, the new mother and calf strong and healthy. I can't help but think that the girls are giving me a positive sendoff. In order to make our flight, Ashley and I must leave Monroe by 10 a.m. It is 9:30 when I arrive home. Oh yeah, I still have to pack.
As you know by now, we made it. As I sit here typing, with this incredible view, I have almost forgotten the stress that preceded this trip. In the end, I suppose it only makes the vacation that much more sacred. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a beer.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
