Halton Hills Newspapers

Independent & Free Press (Georgetown, ON), 8 Sep 2006, p. 7

The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

Knee-deep in `compost' When most people ask that Monday morning question `what did you do on the weekend?' they're usually expecting something bland, mundane or even boring from me. Most times I tell them how I just mowed the lawn, maybe did something constructive around the farm, or just puttered about the house. But last weekend, I found myself knee-deep in sh..., er, ahem...well, let's just call it `compost' for now. You see, the old barn at my place hasn't had any domesticated animals in it since April 1988, when my Dad and I sold our milking herd. The building has been maintained, but for the most part it's been only used for storage. But one part of it has been annoying me lately. It's the old box stalls that housed young cattle and calves. You see, they were never cleaned out after the cattle left. And after close to two decades, a number of rodents had taken refuge deep in the manure in those pens. It was time for some action. As a rule, cleaning calf pens and box stalls is usually a `fork' operation, where one takes a dung fork in hand and manually pitches the pen out. Not a lot of fun, to say the least. But I'm a firm believer that when it comes to one's back, if there's a choice between using brawn, or hydraulic fluid, to move heavy immobile objects, (like a box stall full of 18-year-old cow manure) then hydraulics will win every time. When we had the dairy operation, we also had a little skid-steer loader that was tiny enough to maneuver inside the barn, entering through the narrow 42-inch doorway at the back of the barn. Dad had sold the skid-steer years ago, but in a flash of brilliance I decided to ask the owner (who still uses it) if I could, for old time's sake of course, perhaps have the use of it for a weekend. He agreed, and last Saturday morning, as the rest of the world grumbled about a cold, rainy long weekend, I was in seventh heaven as I climbed aboard that skid-steer, prepared to do battle with the calf pens (and any residents who might be hiding under the foot or so of manure. I must admit, 20-odd years ago, I really enjoyed Ted Brown

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