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I said I’d keep myself out of Cliff’s stories, but I find this hard to read because of the treatment meted out to cows and dogs. It’s certainly not how they were treated on Dorothy and Cliff’s farm, but a good reminder that managing animals can bring out the worst in people. Some people. ~Ian
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Milking cows is not what it used to be. In 1930s New Zealand many were still milking by hand. Power, when available, was from a petrol engine, an Anderson usually.
Lighting was from benzene or kerosene lanterns and candles.
At the start of milking one person got in the cows and started the old Anderson engine while another lit the copper fire for hot water, which could be quite a job. The copper was usually outside and one would often have to get it going in the pouring rain or a howling gale.
The boss usually thought it too extravagant to use kerosene to start it — so finding, and maintaining, a supply of dry kindling was a constant challenge. The fuel was generally ti-tree, which was chopped with an axe, and the copper fire needed constant replenishing during milking.
Of course the kitchen fire had to be kept going in like manner.
After milking, cleaning down the yard and cow bails was done with shovel, bucket and broom. The dung was shovelled up and slung into a heap over the fence, from where it was periodically carted out and spread over the paddocks. Usually two or three 44-gallon drums of water were situated in a corner of the yard. From these, buckets of water were skilfully sloshed around the concrete pad and chased up with the broom. A quicker method was to tip over a full drum of water and then become really energetic with the broom before the water ran down the drain, but as this required a good deal of strength it wasn’t a method used on the Smith’s farm.
The Smith’s milking methods weren’t unusual — only the extraordinary lengths they went to for every last drop. First, the cow would be herded into the bail and roped up (every one a “kicker” in this herd). The teats and udder, always filthy with mud and dung, were then thoroughly washed — in some cases this would need more than one bucket of water — and then dried off. After this a wash with disinfectant was often called for.
Then Miss S. would sit down on her stool with her bucket to “start” the cow. This consisted of stimulating the cow and removing the first milk, and could take some time. Then the cups were put on and the cow milked. To ascertain when the cups should be removed one held the milk pipe against one’s lips to gauge the temperature and thus the milk flow. The Professor would follow to remove the last drops, or strippings, into his bucket. On occasions the cow would not let its milk down and then would follow an extraordinary performance from the Professor. He usually had a stick, either in his hand, or close to it. He would give the cow a bashing with it and turn her back into the yard. Later she would be put through the same process. There would still be no milk and she would be beaten again. Sometimes the process would be repeated as many as three times, and could include a final beating as she left the bail. Not unnaturally the cow, along with most of its companions, would kick you at every opportunity, and didn’t let their milk down very readily at times.
They had a three-bail plant — that is, three sets of cups and three double bails. The theory was that one cow in each pair of bails had the cups on and was milking while the other was bailed up and “started” or “stripped”, but almost always one of the three sets was hung up for some reason. Some cow or other always seemed to need individual attention and either one or both of the Smiths would be busy massaging, pumping air into teats, douching or some other thing I didn’t understand.
Consequently milking sixty-odd cows was a slow performance and, for the first few weeks, milking, followed by feeding the calves, seemed to take every waking hour.
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My first night there was typical of those days. By the time we arrived at what had been the manager’s three-roomed cottage, I was exhausted and hungry. I had been accustomed to eating dinner at miners’ hours, in other words about 4.00pm, so Miss Smith’s scone had by then been well digested. I don’t recall the time but, judging by their usual pattern, it was probably after 10.00pm.
Miss Smith had gone ahead to prepare the meal. To my surprise I was asked to get washed and dressed for dinner.
You might ask, “Why surprised?”
Washing was done with cold water in the tub of the kitchen-cum-wash-house. It took some time in my filthy state because it entailed washing boots, socks and all ready for next morning. Next morning! I could imagine how miserable, cold and clammy they would be when I struggled back into them.
Then the surprise. Dressing for dinner meant dressing as you would to enter an expensive and exclusive Auckland restaurant. I couldn’t reach that standard but I did have my first long pants, and a blazer and tie. The Professor decked himself out in a suit and tie that had seen better days and Miss Smith too was suitably attired.
The table was impressively set. It didn’t sport a table cloth but there was an impressive array of knives, forks and spoons, and massive, good quality dishes. The first plate in front of me was what I call a porridge plate and, hungry as I was, I wondered what was to be put in it. There was the smell of rolled oats cooking but that wouldn’t be it — not for dinner.
But what was it to be? My stomach was empty and complaining bitterly at the delay. This first day was never going to end. I should have been in bed hours ago.
At last Miss Smith arrived in the dining room with a big pot. Thank God.
The Professor got his helping first. It was porridge. Rolled oats! However there was plenty of cream and sugar and I guess I must have really enjoyed it. To follow there was a boiled egg, bread and butter and cocoa.
Afterwards we trudged wearily by the light of a storm lantern to the old house, where I was shown my room. The old house, so I discovered next day, was situated about fifty yards from a very attractive area of native bush that still stands today. The bush covers the whole hillside and, at that time, there were quite a number of kauri heads showing above the totara trees. A bush gully ran up not far from the house, with a nice little stream. Good country for me to explore. I loved the bush.
I remember that I had intended to ring Jimmy Orr, who lived next door to Mum and Dad and who worked night shift at the telephone exchange. He would report to them next day. Miss S., however, informed me that she was sorry but the exchange closed at 10.00pm and I was too late. Tomorrow night, perhaps. It was June night in 1930, that first night at the Smiths. I celebrated my twelfth birthday there on the 5th of July.
The next morning arrived, or so it seemed, almost as soon as I closed my eyes. About 5.30, probably, we were back with the cows. The Professor got the cows in with his unfortunate dog, Tip, who always seemed to be in trouble and received, at times, the most terrible thrashings. The Prof would lay into him with a stick and at times I thought he would never stop hitting him. Poor Tip didn’t suffer in silence and his howls were terrible to hear.
The Professor would turn on some terrible displays of anger and I suppose I was afraid that my turn would come to receive some stick. I was not long from school where the stick was generously applied, and of course Mum was never backward in using a belt. To my mind there was no reason why the Prof shouldn’t take his stick to me although I don’t think I would have stood for it, but left immediately.
It never happened. Both the Prof and Miss S. punished me with words, and very effectively at that. They had a knack for making me ashamed of myself.
While The Prof got in the cows and abused poor Tip, Miss S. and I got the shed ready and lit the copper fire. I must say that Miss S. was never too proud to chop wood or kindling — or indeed to tackle any job no matter how hard or mucky.
Her favourite working garb was one of the Professor’s flannel shirts worn over the top of her long dresses. In those days our shirts had really long tails front and rear which we used to tuck between our legs. I can’t recall wearing, or even knowing about, underpants until I was in my late teens.
Miss S. really looked a case with her hard, gaunt face and tousled hair dressed in the Prof’s shirt and her gumboots — her appearance totally at odds with her speech and mannerisms.
The morning milking followed the pattern of the night before. At about 7.00am a cup of cocoa appeared, and a scone.
Scones, Irish Stew and cocoa were Miss Smith’s specialties. They were excellent but, as for the rest, anything could happen and often did as you will see later.
Milking dragged on and on. At some time during the morning Dave Langridge arrived to do odd jobs and take the cream out. He had finished his milking and had his breakfast! We were little more than half-way.
We finished milking and feeding the calves in time for a lunch of dried packet soup, lentils I think, with bread and butter. After that there was cleaning up, chopping wood and generally preparing for the next milking.
So it went on. I can’t recall all the little disasters that seemed to occur at every milking, but each one became a major one at the hands of the Smiths. The engine wouldn’t start, the transmission belts would slip or the clutch on the separator wouldn’t work, the vacuum in the milking plant would be too high or too low. The inflations (rubber tubes which produced the sucking action on the cow) would have to be replaced or new models experimented with.
Worst of all the cream grades [which were assessed by the dairy company, and affected the price] would be low — first or second instead of “finest” or “superfine”. Then would follow extensive cleaning and boiling operations — along with many complaints to the factory manager.
The morning’s cream, or part of it, would always have to be held over for the next day, for our milking was never finished in time for the morning collection.
Feeding the calves was another problem. All the milk had to be carried in buckets across the stinking outside yard. It was as much as I could do to get myself there safely, let alone hold a bucket of milk above the level of the soupy dung, so this job fell to the Prof.
The calf pen and shed were almost awash with dung as well, much of it the calves’ own clinging, stinking yellow milk-based stuff. I never realised at the time the health problems the calves must have suffered, and their utter misery.
The first few weeks were spent doing little else but milk cows and feed calves. To be fair there were occasions when the Smiths noticed my exhaustion and would tell me to rest after lunch. I needed it badly.
One morning I keeled over on the table in the separator room while we were having our morning cocoa. I may have been sick, I don’t know. They let me sleep there for a while.