Of Bottle Calves and Empty Fuel Tanks

A friend is someone who will help push your truck up the drive when you run out of gas.

And laugh when you tell them that will be your next blog post.

The V. family, who live just a few miles from our farm, have five adult children – all of whom are adopted, and three of which are mentally disabled – who love coming to our farm to feed the calves.

Mami and Papi V first brought their family to our farm after meeting us at church – my siblings and I were friends with their youngest son, Carlos, who is my age. They learned that we lived on a farm and wanted to come visit and help do chores, to see what it was like. They have a small hobby farm, with a few horses, donkeys, sheep, chickens, and one extremely fat Jersey heifer, which was purchased from an Amishman who told them she was pregnant, but years later, still has not calved.

So one wintry day last year, the whole family arrived at our farm for what would become our first-ever personal farm tour. After heading into the milkhouse to watch my sister mix milk replacer, and explain the concept of “baby formula” for young calves, we ventured through the milking parlor like a flock of ducks – everyone following in (pretty much) a straight line behind me.

We headed down to the TMR barn, where I introduced them to several of the more charismatic members of our milking herd. After giving a short demonstration on the composition and purpose of a TMR ration, my sister had finished readying the milk replacer, so we headed up on the hill to feed bottle calves.

The kids loved it, and so did Mami (Pat) and Papi (Chuck). Pat thinks that “feeding calves is the most precious thing in the world”, and so do the kids. The V family have come to the farm no less than 10 times in the past year, and have brought along friends and family members to get the “grand tour”.

According to Yoli, I “talk a lot”, but everyone leaves with a greater understanding of dairy farming, and for that, I will run the risk of a slightly sore throat and talking peoples’ ears off.

In fact, the V’s have been to our farm and fed calves so many times that we entrusted them with the care of our bottle calves while we took a day trip to a family members’ house for the holidays. We knew they would do a good job, and they did.

Last week, we were at the V’s house hanging out and playing video games, and they decided to come help with chores again. We had to make another stop along the way, so they arrived at the farm before we did. However, we were about a mile from the farm when our trusty Ranger began to sputter.

“Oh crap,” said Diane. “We’re out of gas.” Now, see, our Ranger does not have a working fuel gauge, and so we have to guesstimate the level of gas in the tank based on miles traveled since the last fill-up. We guessed wrong.

We managed to make it to the end of the drive – only because it’s a downhill slope up till that point – before we came to the realization that we would have to get out and push. We had made it about halfway up the drive – the point at which the hill starts to get a little steeper – before we stopped, put the truck in park, and I called Pat.

“Hey. You won’t believe it, but we’re about halfway up the drive pushing the Ranger. Could you grab a gas can from the shop and come down with it?” Pat replied affirmatively, and soon enough, the whole crew was walking down the drive with gas can in tow.

Living on a farm, there are three kinds of fuel that you might find: Gasoline, diesel fuel, and kerosene. Unfortunately, the latter was the kind found in the (unlabeled) can, but we had barely splashed the bottom of the tank when we realized our mistake. We quickly capped the can, and the whole V family helped push the truck the rest of the way up the hill. Oscar, the V’s oldest son, walked beside me the whole time, occasionally patting my shoulder and saying, “It happens.”

It sure does, and it’s nice to have friends who are willing to help.