One very cold day (of many) I was washing up milkers after morning milking when my husband strode purposefully into the milkhouse. He reached for the flashlight, all the while giving orders in a no-nonsense-listen-up type of voice, which makes me very antsy.
“Silage not coming. You’ll have to run the last cart out while I’m up there. Turn elevator switch to the left, silo unloader switch to the right, crank it down 20. When cart’s full, crank it up 20 and turn switches off.”
I watched his back go out the door.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” I hollered. He lost me at “turn elevator switch to the left.” My mind does not comprehend verbal instructions thrown over the shoulder as one is walking away. He does these chores every single day. I do not. He knows this. I do not.
He turned and waited for me, exasperatingly going over instructions one more time. Slowly. Seriously, I can drive my own self crazy. It just gets fuddled up in there. When things break down, especially in the cold, husband’s tolerance for my inability to absorb information quickly given wears thin. Anyway, the challenging winter we’ve been having would try the patience of Mother Theresa.
He crawled back up the silo. As he was ascending, I turned off the radio and fans to lessen noise. Presently I heard, “Go ahead!” I turned the elevator switch to the left, I turned the silo unloader switch to the right, I cranked the unloader down 20 times and ran over to the cart to level off the silage as it was coming.
All good. Silage was coming. I was leveling. I’ve got this! Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy coming toward me. Inside I was thinking, “Oh no, I don’t need any distractions right now, what do you want, please go away.”
Turning toward him, I pleasantly smiled, “Hi!” (What a hypocrite.)
“Hi there, I’m so-and-so from somewhere and I’ve got a little information for you here, a probiotic solution for your calves. How are your calves doing?” (Seriously, you’re handing me a brochure? Can’t you see I’m busy?)
“Oh, our calves are doing just fine right now, thank you.” (Go away.)
“Hey, that feed smells great, what’s it test out at?” (What? They eat it, that’s what it tests out at.)
“Umm, I’m not really sure, that’s his area of expertise,” pointing up in the direction of the silo. “We’re having a little trouble here, the silo unloader wasn’t working right so he’s up there while I’m running out the last load.” (Please please please go away!)
I noticed while we were talking that the silage wasn’t coming very well. I started to get a pit in the bottom of my stomach, an oh-oh feeling, something wasn’t quite right. My visitor was on a roll, keeping up a steady stream of conversation about disease prevention programs and improving calf health. Really? Right then I could not have cared less, not one fraction less could I have cared. Something was very wrong.
“I’m sorry. I – I really need to concentrate on this right now, but thank you, leave the pamphlet on the milkhouse chair, could you and thank you.”
One last question, what was my name, nice meeting you, thanks, a wave good-bye and he was, sigh of relief, gone.
Thinking I should turn the silo unloader down if silage wasn’t coming, I ran out to crank it down when I looked up and saw silage tumbling out of the chute. Oh mercy me. I cranked the unloader up 20, turned the elevator switch to the right, the unloader switch to the left, and everything went quiet. Up there he was thinking the cart was full. It wasn’t full, the chute was full, that’s what was full.
It turned out the covered cord hanging down the chute that brings current to the unloader was bound up with silage. It had, because of my distraction, built up a half a cart full of silage. Goodness. My husband had to dig it out of the chute with his hands, allowing it to fall into the elevator, which, in turn, dumps it into the cart that I was manning. Alone this time.
After breakfast, my husband went back out to fix a drinking cup that needed attention while I started mid-morning chores. Barn cleaning went well, but that day he hauled manure in a blustery snow storm and, as he was spreading, got a half-empty load of manure stuck in thigh-deep snow.
The phone rang. “I’m stuck. Bring the truck.” As I was down there helping him dig out, I felt like I was inside one of those snow globes. If I wasn’t so tuckered and so sick of the snow, I’d have noticed it was rather pretty.
All’s well that ends well. Silo unloader is fixed, drinking cup works, tractor and empty manure spreader are back in the shed.
Just another day on the farm.
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