A Sensory History of A World Called Vermont

The Cow Barn Chronicles

     To this day, the pungent odor wafting from a manure lagoon never fails to send me reeling down memory lane. As a farm kid, growing up in west central Vermont back in the forties and fifties, I was no stranger to the smell, texture and dispensing of manure; and, of course, humor almost always played no small role in the relationship between a dairy farmer and this inevitable by-product.

     For instance, I believe I could write an entire book on manure pile adventures. To a small boy in bib-overalls and green-rubber barn boots, a manure pile, just outside the barn doors, was an Everest or at the very least a McKinley. It existed to be climbed. Almost every farm had a manure pile and every pile grew exponentially during the winter months when it was more difficult to spread it on the fields. I will go into the art and science of spreading manure later on.

     Gutter cleaners were not prevalent during my youth and a square-ended barn shovel was usually the weapon of choice. Some barns were wide enough to drive a tractor or a horse-drawn manure spreader between the gutters, but this was usually done only when the weather and snow depth allowed spreading directly on the fields. The rest of the time a wheel barrow was used. When full, the wheel barrow was wheeled along narrow planks that spanned the manure pile, out to the far edge. As the pile got higher, the runway became progressively steeper, making the transport more difficult and unwieldy than ever.

     Pushing a wheel barrow filled with liquid moo-doo can be a terrifying experience for the novice, especially when the planks are steep and slippery. The contents have a tendency to slosh from one side to the other, and it takes a driver with the skill and nerve of a tight-rope-walker to keep the contraption from prematurely upending.

     Harry, our highly skilled hired man, took deserved pride in his ability to negeotiate the planks under any weather conditions, came to a sticky end one morning when the brown stuff was soupier than usual and the planks were coated with a thick layer of black ice. Harry had successfully made the first turn and was headed up heart-break- hill to the summit when his feet, snugly encased in his green-rubber- barn boots, shot out from under him, leaving him momentarily suspended in mid-air. 

     Let's stop for a moment and visualize what was going on with Harry at this critical moment. In order to push his sloshing load up the slippery trail, Harry was bent low over the load, leaving his well-groomed, bearded face just inches from the tidal action going on below. Let's add to this horrific scene, the probability that Harry was also suffering from a mammoth hangover.

     Okay, Harry's feet are suspended in mid-air, his face is inches from the slurry, he is hung over and the wheel barrow suddenly puts on the brakes because Harry has lost traction and stopped pushing. Now, at  this juncture, Harry might still have saved himnself if only he hadn't taken such pride in his skill with an overloaded wheel barrow. "Pride goeth before a fall," someone once wrote, ;and fall Harry most certainly did. Instead of dumping the load to one side and saving himself, Harry attempted to regain control. He managed to keep the wheel barrow upright, but at tremendous cost to himself. He was unable to stop his forward motion, and the inevitable plunging of his head, well groomed beard et al, into the brown-green slop.

     Green-rubber-barn-boots were considered, by small boys of the forties and fifties, to have magical properties. We fervently believed that our boots would allow us to walk on manure piles without breaking through the brown surface crust that all manure piles aspire to when summer temperatures begin to rise. It was an act of faith that was almost never supported from past performance; and it was a perverse sporting event that was usually attempted when someone made a double-dare. Magical boots or not, I never knew of anyone to scale a crusty manure p;ile with impunity--myself included. What usually happened was an encouraging beginning, and then, just as the summit was within reach, the boots would begin to sink and forward momentum would become heavier and slower as it became necessary for us to lift our magical boots higher and higher. The rest, as they say, is history, albeit a messy one.

     Eventually, however, the manure pile would have to be spread on the land and this activity could either be relatively pleasant or a barbaric adventure, depending on the time of year. Winter was the worst time, in my opinion, to spread manure. It was always cold, and riding a tractor in a twenty-mile-per-hour breeae, at minus ten degrees, was bad enough, but cow-doo has a tendency to freeze  into chunks, the size and consistency of hard snow balls and exit the spreader via the beaters with a trajectory that targets the back of the tractor driver's head. 

     I believe that manure piles have been under exploited by the theme park industry. I have no doubt, that when DIsney finally gets wind of this exciting opportunity, manure pile theme parks will pop up like mushrooms across the land, and families will max out their credit cards in order to don those green-rubberp-barn-boots.