On reverence.
This is a post from the archives of the “On Butter Hill” Substack newsletter. In an effort to streamline our online presence, I will be reposting our Substack posts here on our blog while gradually dissolving our posts there.
I could feel the hot tears charging their way up through my tear ducts. Sweat dripped down my face and back and into my long-since soaked pearl snap shirt. I fought awkwardly with the leather chain halter that held the face of a highly spirited dairy heifer, just big enough to make a complete fool of me while hundreds looked on.
It was twelve years ago, the “showman of showmen” contest at my county fair. I had finally made it. I cared little to have been class valedictorian, or on the varsity team, or even popular among my peers, but to have been chosen to compete as a showman of showmen was the single most important moment of my teenage life. A livestock showman’s skills are put to the ultimate test, to show animals of every species and possibly most importantly, animals chosen by random draw. The intimate connection between showman and animal created over months and months of work together mattered not. The animal greeting you at the entrance to the show ring would have never seen you before, so good luck.
Our county fair was admittedly small, so pickings were slim. There were maybe a handful of us kids who poured our hearts and souls into the taming and training of our animals, leaving the rest of the exhibitors there by way of novelty or overly enthusiastic parents. The heifer chosen for me that day cared about little else other than making sure I knew she would prefer I not lead her around a crowded show ring. To be honest, she scared me. Cattle were not my bag. I tried to play it cool, but as her mouth foamed up in agitation and stress, my racing thoughts had me nearly running out of the gate at the earliest possible chance once the judge had us placed. It was last for me.
I hid myself as best I could in the holding area after the dairy portion ended, hoping as few people as possible would see my heaving shoulders while I choked back sobs. “I want out.” I thought. Panic boiled in my chest as I reckoned that the show must go on. There were still several other species to work through before the ultimate showman was chosen. What was I going to do, leave? This was my dream (or so I thought?).
On a dark early spring morning some twelve years later, I could feel the hot tears charging their way up through my tear ducts. “I want out.” I thought. Panic boiled in my chest as I reckoned that the show must go on. This was my dream (or so I thought?).
My first milking.
This feels familiar.
The human/bovine relationship is a complicated one.
You see, human ego is a funny thing. I have found myself envious many times over friends, acquaintances, colleagues, in my agricultural pursuits who just seemed to “know” cattle. It felt they held a secret to agrarian life reserved only for the die-hards. So, resolute I became, in my convictions at least, that I would master cattle with ease.
The pretty blonde cow we hauled home from Texas seemed eager to inform my ego where it could go with a swift, crap-flinging kick. My first time being kicked in earnest by a cow. A milkmaid’s baptism.
“I want out.” I thought.
Reverence.
What the secret-keepers have is reverence. For an animal that could end your life in a violent, hormone-induced rage, should you come between them and their still-wet calf, if they wanted to. Reverence for the fact that oftentimes, though they can, they don’t…having prescribed a level of trust to their milkmaid. Reverence for the kicks that remind you trust is earned, not given. Reverence for the gift of domesticated bovines, usually undeserved. Reverence for the weight of responsibility to earn the submission and trust of a cow as her delight, not her defeat.
I’m now learning to submit myself to the way of the cow. I often wonder why things pan out the way they do. Since my initiation into the life of a dairywoman, other cows have come along to prove that not every quest into the world of cattle is an uphill battle of the wills. In the dairy and in life, better to have battled our egos first and be proven worthy, than to never have battled at all. What a vulnerable position our pride leaves us in! As the saying goes, pride cometh before the fall. And I’ve seen more than one herdsman fall, crushed by the bovine will.
I don’t know whether I will always be a milkmaid. Who can know for sure? At first, I wanted to give up daily. Then maybe twice a week. And slowly, we are here. A peaceful, content rhythm. There is still much to be navigated as I partner with these magnificent creatures to feed our farm and our family. We will stay this course together. Things will ebb and flow. Snow will come, and wind, and we pray late February calving will be a triumph. And we’ll do it again and again. The milking, the cleaning, the straining, the making. With gratitude.
With reverence.
