Melissa versus Manure Part 1
A Tale of Determination, Dairy Cows and Dung
When I was five years old, I had the confidence of a farm kid who thought she could do anything, especially if it involved cows, boots and being just like Dad.
Our dairy barn was the heart of our family farm, home to 30 Holsteins lined up in stanchions like black-and-white dominoes. Their big friendly eyes would blink slowly as they chewed their cud and stared off into the bovine beyond. Their rear ends, however, were strategically aimed at a shallow gutter running the length of the alleyway, nature’s conveyor belt for cow contributions.
Every morning after morning milking was over, Dad would back the manure spreader into that alley like a pro, line it up perfectly, grab his pitchfork and go to town. It was one of the least glamorous but most essential chores on the farm. And I wanted in. I had begged and begged to help clean the barn. My logic was flawless: I was five, I loved animals, and I had seen Dad do it a hundred times.
How hard could it be?
Dad, seasoned in both child-rearing and manure management, gently said no. Repeatedly. But I was persistent, and eventually—perhaps worn down or curious what I’d do—he relented. He handed me a pitchfork twice my height and gave me a small spot to work on, with the gentle warning: “Just be careful, honey. This is a big job.” That should have been my first clue. But no, I was five. I had grit. I had gumption. I had zero upper-body strength.
I jammed that pitchfork into the brown bounty like I meant business. And then—with all the confidence of a tiny farm warrior—I heaved.
Unfortunately, physics had other ideas.
The fork didn’t so much launch the manure as it did loft it... directly over my head. There was a glorious arc, a brief moment of silence and then a splat that can only be described as epic. It hit my hair, my forehead and most of my pride. Dad froze mid-forkful. I looked up at him through a curtain of cow pie and betrayal. He didn’t laugh. Well not right away.
Instead, he helped me wipe off what he could, then walked me back to the house like a tiny casualty of war. As Mom rinsed manure out of my bangs at the kitchen sink, Dad crouched down beside me and said gently, “Sweetheart, sometimes you’re just not big enough for some jobs yet. There’ll come a day when you are and you won’t want to help me.”
At the time, I thought that was ridiculous. Why wouldn’t I want to fork manure with Dad forever?
Me years later showing my nice, clean dairy heifer at the county fair in Big Stone County
Fast forward a decade or two, and I can confirm: Dad was right. But every time I get a whiff of fresh cow patties or see a pitchfork, I remember the day five-year-old me took on the dairy barn and lost, gloriously in a showdown now forever known as Melissa versus Manure.