So there they were, from Berlin to Northern Saskatchewan. In the training camp in England, Mother had more or less (rather less than more) learned to milk a cow. She thought that Dad had had the opportunity to run behind the tractor and see how that worked.
Looking at the photo, Tom observed: "That's right up against the house. That's our abode, or part of it: the old homestead. That's the back porch. You can tell it isn't the barn because the door isn't big enough for the cows to get through!" Laughter all around.
Molly added: "Mother's favourite cow, Biddy..."
Mother showed her farming mettle; sentiment and favouritism did not get in the way of practicality.
"...We always butched a calf [in the fall], or that old white cow, finally; she was seventeen. I said 'You kill that cow and I won't eat any,' but Pat, that meat was delicious! It's the way it was raised, you know, with all that good stuff. It was always hollow, a big, white bony cow, but what meat!"
"You ate some, I gather?""Yes! That was fantastic meat."
No comments:
Post a Comment