A Cow* of a Story

We lived twelve miles from town and had no transport and, thus, no fresh milk for our two young children. Our solution was to get a cow, except we had nowhere to keep a cow. We decided to look for a suitable paddock, which we found further up the road. It was pretty well overgrown with burrawangs but had a sturdy fence. We tracked down the owner and negotiated a fair rental.

We found a cow; she was a beautiful silver jersey with angelic brown eyes, heavy lashes and a coat as soft as silk. Her name was Silver and she had a red calf at foot. We asked our friends, the Reid boys, to bring her home on their truck.

My only experience with a cow had been painful for both parties, with nothing to show in the bucket for our efforts. Hence Father (my husband Ed) would milk – or learn to milk – the cow, and I would tether the calf and look after it.

Every time Father went to the paddock, Silver would hide. From a distance I could see her pacing Father around the burrawangs until he finally caught her. They walked down to the bails and then the battle of wits commenced. It was a long drawn out milking process, which tested the patience of both milker and milkee. The same procedure took place day after day - children loved milk. Father hated the whole business. The calf got scours and continually knotted up its ropes. I was forever moving it about.

Nature finally took its course, and Silver went dry. It was time to find her a bull. She went back into the Reid boys' truck and off to a farm where a bull was sure to do the trick. She came back again the next month with no results. With a change of bull - nothing.

The rains came, and as our block was on the side of a hill, the constant comings and goings of Father's work truck made the going pretty slippery. I was working in the kitchen, and Father had gone to feed the cow. A peaceful rustic scene… then thunder.

Silver was first in sight, ploughing her way up the hill, then Father, then a huge bull, in full roar. Two steps forward, one step back. Father first, then the cow, then the bull, sloshing up the incline with all three in full voice. Neck and neck, they disappeared up the hill, Silver bellowing, Father panting, and the bull hoping for results with whatever he caught up with first.

Father had really had enough so he called on the Reid boys once more. Silver was sent off to their farm, but still no luck. Eventually, the vet said she would calve no more. What were we to do with her?

The Reid boys suggested that they butcher her, provided they got half the carcass and we agreed. Silver came back in great bloody lumps so we had to add butchering to our do-it-yourself skills. We had bought a quantity of white enamel bins at a disposal store at the end of the war and used them to store flour and sugar and bulk dry goods in our kitchen. We had limited refrigeration, so Silver was salted down and stored in the white bins wherever we could find spare space. We had corned beef on the menu for many months, corned Silverside, corned Silver front, corned Silver back, and corned Silver anything else you could think of.

The Reid boys agreed to bring us milk from their farm at Lynch's Creek. Our two children had their fresh milk and a horse ride home every time the milk was delivered. Father was very relieved. I sold the calf, and we never tried to be self-sufficient in the dairy line again.

* In Oz English the phrase 'a cow of' implies something well short of perfect, as in 'I had a cow of a day.' ("Oz English" being Australian)