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Return to Other Newspaper Articles  Return to Main Page	The Post-Star  November 17, 2002  ERIN R. COKER - THE POST-STAR Post-Star reporter Martha Petteys feeds a calf at Peckhaven Farms in Saratoga. Petteys voluntarily spent a day shadowing farm owner Joe Peck to learn what a farmer’s life might be like. By the end of the day, Petteys understood the hard work running a farm takes. ERIN R. COKER - THE POST-STAR Peckhaven Farms owner Joe Peck directs a cow to feed. Peck opened his farm to Post-Star reporter Martha Petteys. ERIN R. COKER - THE POST-STAR Knee-deep in manure:  Reporter learns what it takes to be a farmer BY MARTHA PETTEYS Editors Note: This is the first of an occasional series of first-person stories by Post-Star reporters about the experience of spending a day working at one of the thousands of jobs that make up the local economy and define the character of the community. SARATOGA --  I was a soldier in a mine field looking for a downed comrade whose very life depended on getting a yellow ear tag. Or, at least, that's what I told myself as I pushed through the slurry of manure trying to keep my breakfast down. I was flanked on either side by black-and-white rear ends, but like a good soldier, I pushed on, praying to God that my $14 Wal-Mart boots would hold out. And then, in the dim light of the cow barn, I spotted No. 926, and sure enough, she was missing one of her tags. To an outsider, just making it through one day at a dairy farm can feel like a "Saving Private Ryan"-scale achievement. But to guys like Joe Peck, it is just another day at work. Peck owns Peckhaven Farms in Saratoga. He has farmed all his life and, he says, nothing can gross him out. Spend a day with him, and you know he isn't lying. "If you can pull a calf, de-horn a cow, lance an abscess and still have appetite for the all-you-can-eat spaghetti dinner at school that night, you know you are a farmer," said Peck, who agreed to let a reporter spend a day in the trenches with him. It was 7 a.m. Tuesday, and Peck was mixing up some milk for the calves. Thinking this would be like a happy trip to Catskill Game Farm, I went to the calf pens with a bottle. The first hungry calf ran around me, wrapping my legs in chain. The second calf fell to the ground because I didn't hold her head right. The goats at Catskill were never this difficult.
copyright 2002 Peckhaven Publishing

The work of farmers is a mystery to many, Peck said. He was driving his manure spreader down the road a while back when he saw a pair of "just-moved-to-the-country types" out for a walk, he said. As he waved, he thought to himself, "They have no idea what I do."

A hundred years ago, 30 to 40 percent of the population farmed, he said. That number has now dwindled to about 1 percent and, as a result, people do not have contact with agriculture. They don't appreciate the work that goes into getting a half gallon of milk to the kitchen table.



A day's work

On this day, Peck was out of bed at 6 a.m. He had been in the milk parlor the night before until midnight. The power had gone out while he was in the middle of milking his 100 cows, so the three-and-a-half hour job in the parlor took around six, he said.

We headed to the barn to track down two cows that needed medicine. The veterinarian is called for emergencies, but Peck knows how to treat most infections and give the cows vaccines. Because Peck is usually the guy with the needle, the older, wiser cows keep their distance.

"You don't make eye contact, because then they know you are after them," said Peck, as walked down the center aisle of the barn, parting the herd of cows like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Having 750-pound animals lumber and sometimes even run through a barn made for a dangerous situation. My thoughts, strangely enough, were not about the possibility of being smashed against a gate and breaking a rib. I was more concerned with not getting plastered by a cow pie, which were being generously dolled out by the ladies. Peck did nothing to calm my fears.

"They have been known to cough and you get it right on the side of your head, but that doesn't happen often," he said, smiling, as if this was some sort of happy reassurance.

Peck tracked down the cow that needed medicine and corralled her into a stanchion. He pulled out an IV needle, and then set out to prove that nothing makes him squeamish. Holding the cow's head in a harness, Peck speared the animal's jugular vein. A stream of blood arched from the vein, splattering the ground 2 feet away. Peck hooked up the IV line and, five minutes later, the bottle of medicine was empty and the cow was free to go.

Then Peck did a jugular hit on a second cow, and wrapped the front hoof of another. Keeping the animals healthy and happy takes up a good part of his day.

"They say a cow is the only animal in the world that can make 200 quarts of methane a day and not explode. It's an amazing animal," said Peck, over a bowl of tomato soup.

After a lunch break, we headed back out to the barn. It was now raining, and my feet were cold.

I stood in the barn watching the cows eat. They pushed their noses into the silage, grabbed up mouthfuls of food and chewed from side to side. Condensation from their warm breath created a veil of steam over the trough, which stretched the length of the barn. Their wide eyes and big faces looked up at me occasionally. It was a pretty scene, though the smell left something to be desired.

Shaking out of this pastoral trance, I put my mind back on the hunt. I was trying to track down cows who were missing ear tags. I walked down the aisle of the barn with a thin orange stick in my hand, like a schoolmarm looking for unruly students. I spotted a cow with a single tag lounging in her stall. I tried to convince her to get up and walk to the front of the barn to see Peck, but she blinked her long lashes at me and seemed to laugh. I decided to let Peck handle her.



Milking madness

It was late afternoon, and Peck had been moving from one job to another since 7 a.m. And this is the slow time of year, he said. He doesn't get to take a breath during harvest time.

We checked the antifreeze on each of the farms' nine tractors, and then hopped in the cab of Peck's John Deere 4040 and drove down to the field to spread the morning's load of manure. We got back from the field, fed the calves again and got ready for the 6 p.m. milking.

Peck rang a bell, opened the gate and six cows came into the right side of the milking parlor. I stood in the center of the parlor with the cows' hinder parts about a foot from my face. I tried not to gag. I put my nose under the neck of my shirt for a moment to regain my composure.

Peck explained the milking procedure, showing me how to first squeeze the cow's teat to get some milk to squirt out. I struggled along, pulling at the poor animal for a trickle of white. Peck, meanwhile, with one swift motion, looked like he had dipped his gloved hands in a bucket of milk.

I then washed the cows' four teats with iodine, and Peck attached the spider-like suction piece that milked them. While these cows were being milked by the machine, Peck opened the gate and let six more animals in the other side of the parlor. I now had 12 rears in my face. I felt nauseous.

The hours passed, and the cows kept on coming. My feet now hurt. I smelled. And, if I groped at one more udder, I'd lose it. At 8:30 p.m., I packed it in. But not Peck. He just kept on milking.

Farmers are a tough breed. If you don't believe me, just try giving a cow a rectal exam.

© Copyright 2002 Glens Falls Newspapers Inc. The Post-Star