Christmas, and the holidays, take on a whole new meaning on a dairy farm. As I like to say, the cows need to be milked twice a day, every day, no matter what. There is a unique feeling when it comes to family holiday dinners when dessert has long been served and plates cleaned, in those waning moments when daylight turns to dusk, that late-afternoon time of day when a dairy farmer glances anxiously at the clock, desperate to teleport a few more precious minutes into the day. What a glorious feeling it must be, to be able to remain indoors amongst the warmth and comfort of good company!
Growing up on a dairy farm, I always felt a twinge of jealousy toward my cousins, who got to stay in and play rather than venture outside to work. Of course, there is also a sense of pride and accomplishment that comes with a job well done. To work hard is to put your identity into the task at hand. In this moment, I reflect upon my childhood. I remember fondly the old stanchion barn. I remember how the cows kept the barn warm throughout the cold winter months. I remember how the barn smelled, and the unique clank of the old stanchions, and the buzz of the old water cups.
I can imagine standing in the barn driveway, gazing over the herd. As I walked the feed manger, the cows stared back. They hold their heads high with ears out, their soft dark eyes reflecting kindness and anticipation. The small size of the dairy herd allowed for individuality in the cows, and to this day I can remember some of their names and personalities.
Growing up on a dairy farm meant one thing — chores. Always, there were chores. On my birthday, there were chores. On Christmas, we did chores. Only in the rarest of exceptions did my father ever take a milking off. On holidays and Christmas in particular, it was all hands on deck. Because of this, I never believed in Santa Claus. As early as I can remember, I always knew where our presents came from, and I like to believe that knowledge helped me to better appreciate my parents. Thus, our Christmas tradition was born:
On Christmas Eve, my mother stayed in the house. It was hardly an indoor reprieve; she would spend the evening preparing Christmas dinner and setting up the house. My father, siblings, and I did the outside chores. We fed the baby calves and livestock, milked the cows, and cleaned the milkhouse. We worked together, and completed the necessary tasks ahead of schedule. All finished, we left the cows warm and dry, and retired as a family to the house. I can still recall the warmth and coziness of the old stanchion barn when we said goodnight to the cows and turned off the barn lights until morning.
Outside the barn was a postcard-perfect vision of rural Christmas. It seems to me that snow has been replaced with mud in recent years, but I recall fondly how the barn and buildings sparkled with a fresh snowfall in the winter starlight. Inside the house, my mother would be putting the finishing touches on our Christmas meal. There would be candles lit. She would have placed presents underneath the tree — there was always a surprisingly generous amount, considering the obvious financial challenges my parents faced. Mom would have classical Christmas music playing, perhaps a European orchestra or choir. Our Christmases were always influenced by my mom’s travels throughout Europe in her college years. The sounds, the smells, the flickering light — all of this remains, in my mind, the very definition of Christmas.
It was because of the cows — and ubiquitous chores — that we always celebrated Christmas as a family on Christmas Eve. We ate the meal that my mother prepared as a family. All together, we exchanged gifts. One year, my dad got me a tool set, “Because I’m sick of you always borrowing mine.” I still have the set, and use it constantly. The tool set my Dad got me has been used to repair everything from household appliances to aircraft, and I think of him each time.
After our gift exchange we enjoyed dessert, which would always conclude a very late night. The next morning, Christmas morning, while most families were celebrating, we would awake to do chores. Always, there were chores. But, there was a lightness to the chores on Christmas morning.
And now, on this upcoming Christmas Eve, I realize that my upbringing on the farm has influenced the traditions that I now enjoy. As we all grow older, a unique joy of life is to create memories and traditions of our own. As I look back on my upbringing, I do not resent the cows, nor do I resent the chores. My parents have both passed, and my siblings have families of their own. For each of us, we have created our own traditions.
As I look forward to this coming Christmas Eve, my heart is full with the memory of the times our family celebrated together, and I am quite grateful to have the memories and the experiences of having grown up on a dairy farm.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
