John Arnold: The time has come... Book not closed, just a new chapter to write
Cows are smart-bovine intelligence- we just can't measure it or learn it from a book. But believe me it’s there, says John Arnold.
Well I suppose not many talk to cows, even to their own, but I do.
And why wouldn’t you talk to ‘em; we are in the place since the 1870s. And we never bought a cow, at fair or mart - or from a dealer either, so their bovine ancestors might be in Garryantaggart since just after Famine times.
My great-grandfather Dan and his son Batt and his son Dan, then Mam and then us two too milked them for nigh on a century and a half. And now is it over?
They say all good things come to an end and maybe this is it -for this generation anyhow.
Why wouldn’t I be crying with my very, very sore thumb sticking out as it should like a sore thumb, with nail blackened and blued, and red blood gone black under a split, rising and losing nail. But sure I suppose ‘twas my own fault. I can’t and won’t blame another sinner nor saint either – I am culpa, maxima culpa and maybe got what I deserve too. Others whispered ‘tis years overdue’!
Thinking and pondering over it with years, months, days, and seasons, and now.
In Ballyduff feting an All Ireland, met Bill and Jack, their grandfather was Dramatic. Ah yes Bill was all that and much more, a man I so admired and longed to be like. Four and six the boys are; parents pride and joy and truly rightly so.
Four was I in 1961 when my father died and I’m crying now trying to remember him but no, I can’t.
He hardly saw his own children, never mind grandchildren, and climbing backwards on the family tree branches it must be fourteen decades since an Arnold grandfather heard ‘hi grandad’.
Daniel, Batt, and Dan were never so lucky as I, John, am now in these blessed days of today at this sacred time. Ah ‘lucky’ doesn’t really express how I feel about them lads- oh lads, boys and girls too – all special, unique, different -like me? ‘Oh yes, definitely’, ‘no not all-like the other grandad -the head off him’ - that’s the talk, the caint, the craic, the duchais -no photocopies just all originals.
I do be looking for the foxy hair in each of them and the freckles too.
A visiting priest told me, an altar-boy I was like ‘a freckled tomato’. I was nine and ‘twas the best compliment I ever got in 1966. Foxy, blondy, black, brown or a crazy whirl of all these -what matter; truly health is wealth and I know I’m a millionaire now.
God inspire those finishing off the Leaving this week. Half a century and a year ago was my Leaving time but in reality I never left. With my 1 Honour in Irish a vast vista of educational opportunities didn’t spread it’s apron in front of me.
But what matter -in September of ‘74 Mam said, ‘Sure milk the cows until Christmas and after that….’.
Happiness and contentment -what price these? Priceless more than jewels or money in the bank. Farming in our own place, amongst our own people in a parish laden with layers of history -past and present ‘cause today’s story is truly tomorrow’s history; oh who could carve out any better life with a wife who knows me and endures me, supports me and never stopped me going in ten different directions all at once.
Often thought when the children were young and I was at a meeting in Cork or Dublin, in the GPO, RTÉ or Croke Park, how lucky I was to have someone keeping the home fires burning.
Me on a crusade about rural Ireland or trying to make sure the GAA doesn’t forget that it’s all about the games -our games, and leave everyone else to do their own thing. Damn the begrudgers. My dreams and schemes, bans and plans. As Val Doonican sang;
And the cows - we planned to have 70, but interest rates went to 22%. What do they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Well the mice might as well have shredded our plans. Paying the interest only for years - not very interesting, but we scraped through. Furrowed brows and just 40 cows, but we stayed at it. I never really learned to add or subtract or multiply or divide so figures meant nothing to me - still don’t.
Don’t talk to me about kilometres or kilograms -for me it’s miles and smiles and hundredweights and gates.
Regrets, ah yes I’ve had a few, but far too few to mention. Truly there’s no point in crying over spilled milk quota or no quota.
Talking to cows - in one ear and out the udder- I don’t believe a word of it! Maybe shouting at ‘em to come in or cajoling them through a gap, but keep the conversation channels open. Hate, absolutely hate, that ‘dumb animals’ nonsense.
Cows are smart-bovine intelligence- we just can’t measure it or learn it from a book. But believe me it’s there.
In the last month, I had to decide - to milk or not to milk next year. I said ‘ok’ to Mam when she asked me to milk -that was 51 twelve months ago. I didn’t ponder or wonder or wander my thoughts back then. ‘Yes,’ I said.
Now the exit strategy is not so simple.
Look, I love the land and all it means, not in a Bull McCabe manner, but be kind to the land and ‘twill be kind in return, and it has thus been so.
Now I’ve decided to call it a day as regards milking and cried bitter, salty tears about it. Tossed and tumbled in sleepless darkness.
‘Aisy milk 20 cows,’ someone said, but no, the time has come. Book not closed, just a new chapter to write with unfettered blank pages of family, fields, ditches and boreens. They’ve minded me so I’ll have more time to tend them now.
So on Friday of last week I told the cows out straight and simple, I tried not to cry, but failed as I said ‘once ye finish milking this winter that’ll be it’.
Honestly I couldn’t tell them what the prospects are for fat dry cows. But they knew full well, ah yes they’re no fools.
Following morning, as Cork and Limerick prepared for battle, it happened. Fifteen-year-old red and white Rotbundt cow - matriarch of my little herd.
Lashed out with the mother and father of an unmerciful and savage kick.
Her aim was good, better than when I tried hurling!
Thumb not broken, just badly bashed and bruised -like my pride.
That’s what I got for talking to cows.
App?
