Welcome to Advent. Besides reading about Gunther Schuller's return to Spokane to conduct the symphony's upcoming "Handel's Messiah" at Spokane's Presbyterian Church, I know of another big Presbyterian event in Sandpoint tonight. The Presbyterians have set the beginning of Advent as the perfect time to usher in their $500,000 remodeled and enlarged sanctuary.
I know about this because my husband is the clerk of the session for the local Presbyterian congregation, and he's devoted many hours to helping oversee this renovation to the lovely old church, which began its second century in Sandpoint a couple of years ago. With tonight's Advent service, Bill will not be home for dinner.
Speaking of things coming home and the Advent (the arrival) season, I also read in this morning's Spokesman "In Life" section that a dairy farmer's cows will not stay home if the wrong Christmas music is playing in their milking parlor. The farmer's name is Dick Ziehnert, and he likes to play music for his cows, but during Christmas season, there's one song that drives them bonkers.
It's that obnoxious one played almost as often as the "Lion King" commercial where the dogs bark the "Jingle Bells" melody. I don't blame those cows. According to the article in "The Slice," he can tell by the third "woof" that they're not happy.
They want to leave the barn and get the heck out of Dodge. Apparently, he's careful to screen the music during this season, and before the third "woof" comes, he turns off the radio----just to keep those cows contented and to avoid having cottage cheese.
And, speaking of happy cows, my brother Jim came up with a good cartoon today. Can you imagine what fun it must be for cows to gather at such a party? I wonder if their offerings include 24-hour bras, and I'm curious to know just how large the cup sizes are. I can't help but think of Bossy, our Guernsey from that long ago time called "childhood." She would have needed a custom-made cup cuz I've never seen a cow with a bosom quite like Bossy's.
My mother has the most precious picture in the world of Bossy. I think it's almost 55 years old now, and it sits in her living room. There's my brother Mike with his bright red hair and brother Kevin beside him, both looking like innocent cherubs, standing next to Bossy in front of our old North Boyer barn. One brother is toting a stainless steel milk bucket.
Bossy was one of the stars of our childhood---not only because she supplied us and all the cats with her rich milk and thick cream, but also because she had great character for a cow. She was solid brown. She'd been dehorned, and she always had a lovely, friendly expression, much like one of the inebriated ladies in Jim's cartoon.
What made Bossy stand out, though, were those huge teats (as the proper folks call them; we just called 'em tits). They hung down low and flopped from side to side from her udder like a quartet of Woods' giant German sausages. And because they were so huge, Bossy had problems in the pastures. After morning milking, she'd take off through the pasture and stray a bit, sometimes into Harney's field, sometimes to Ed Senft's.
When it was time for our beloved Bossy cow to come home, we'd start yelling, "Come Boss, come Boss, come Boss." When she didn't show after a few minutes, we knew she was probably hung up in some fence somewhere. Sure enough, we'd meet up with her, help her get through the barbwire and then watch those tits bleed all the way to the barn. My dad used lots of udder balm on Bossy, and she had a network of permanent scars running down those tits to show for all her errant travels.
My dad never played music for Bossy during milking time, let alone during Advent, and she never did get together with her Guernsey buddies for a crazy bra party.
But that ol' brown cow with those battle-scarred German sausages, swinging from side to side, left her mark in our hearts forever.
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