{"id":4431,"date":"2026-05-26T09:35:31","date_gmt":"2026-05-26T15:35:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/?p=4431"},"modified":"2026-05-26T10:22:46","modified_gmt":"2026-05-26T16:22:46","slug":"pay-attention-to-the-poop-trough","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/2026\/05\/26\/pay-attention-to-the-poop-trough\/","title":{"rendered":"Pay attention to the poop trough"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

An example of an early Pennsylvania dairy barn. Photo <\/a>courtesy of the American Dairy Industry.<\/p><\/div>\n

Marc\u2019s farm was a right-hand turn off the highway and then down a long dirt road. I never paid attention to how we got there. I was around seven years old. The sky, the birds, anything outside the window had my attention. If I\u2019m not driving, I\u2019m not paying attention to the directions.<\/p>\n

Marc was the cousin of my mother\u2019s boyfriend. He was a dairy farmer, but you couldn\u2019t see his barn or farmhouse from the beginning of the long, dirt road. There were grass fields on either side of the road where the cows could graze, or so I was told. I never did see them there.<\/p>\n

As the dirt kicked up to make a dusty haze behind the Dodge van, my eyes followed along the top of the barbed wire fencing as my invisible friend expertly rode his dirt bike along the tops, missing anything that would puncture his tires. Sometimes, he would jump from post to post. On rainy days, I\u2019d watch the droplets race each other down the side of the Dodge van\u2019s window. <\/p>\n

The stench was evident before you ever got out of the van. Many call it \u201cthe smell of money.\u201d It\u2019s a mix of damp soil and hay baking in the sun. The manure, as we were to politely refer to it, was horrific. Shit stinks. Even at age seven, I thought I should be allowed to call it shit. It gets everywhere and infects your tiny nose hairs. You\u2019re not allowed to cover your face though. That would be rude.<\/p>\n

Kids needed permission to go inside the farmhouse. Marc, his family, their clothes, the furniture, the walls, the pots and pans, everything inside had the stench of a liquid shit slurry. Even when Marc visited us in town in our house, he fucking smelled like shit. <\/p>\n

Visits usually consisted of adults playing Rummy, sometimes Pinochle. The kids were kicked outside to fend for themselves and find their own entertainment. There was a creek we were strictly told to never mess around in. We did anyway. There were thickets taller than me. Whenever we played tag, I\u2019d run into them because I was small and could avoid the pricker bushes that grew alongside and sometimes intertwined with the thickets. There was the former pig sty, a barn with loose hay and another barn split between an upper part with baled hay and the lower part where the cows were milked.<\/p>\n

The part of Marc\u2019s barn where the cows were was a dirty white. Whitewash, a mixture of lime and chalk, was sprayed everywhere to sanitize floors, walls, and the ceiling inside where the dairy cows took their place in their stanchions to be milked. It still didn\u2019t remove the stench. It wasn\u2019t good at removing the dirt or shit, either. I\u2019m not sure why Marc even bothered.<\/p>\n

On this particular day, I had summoned the courage to ask if I could learn how to milk a cow. Although the process was automated, Marc agreed to show me how it was manually done before he hooked up one of his cows to the machines.<\/p>\n

We walked into the barn and past the poop trough. We walked on the left side of the trough while the cows were led in on the right. The smell was vomit inducing. I wasn\u2019t allowed to throw up. That would be disrespectful.<\/p>\n

I was told to pay attention to the poop trough. It was full and liquidy. My little brain tried to figure out why. Did the cows have diarrhea? Do they mix it with water before putting it on plants? Marc doesn\u2019t have plants. How do they hose it out? Many questions ran through my mind, but I did not ask a single one. I was being given the opportunity to learn to milk a cow.<\/p>\n

Marc led me to the end of the line of cows and put a small three-legged, wooden stool next to the cow\u2019s udders. I glanced around and counted four rows of cows. I thought, \u201cwow, he must be rich to have so many cows.\u201d This was also only part of his herd. He said he didn\u2019t always know where the cows were. Indeed, the creek on his property we were not to mess with split two fields. There were always hoof prints in the mud on the edges of the creek, but I never saw a cow in either field.<\/p>\n

Marc sat down and taught me how to milk the cow. Then, it was my turn. Apparently, I was being too gentle and Marc clasped his hands around mine. \u201cOw,\u201d I said out loud. \u201cDoesn\u2019t that hurt the cow?\u201d Marc shook his head no and encouraged me to try again on my own.<\/p>\n

While I was successful, the thought of filling up the bucket he had sent my mind reeling. It must take days to fill one bucket. My hands quickly tired. By this time, Mom\u2019s boyfriend\u2019s two sons, Darren and Dean, wanted to have a go at it. I gladly obliged.<\/p>\n

I stood and watched Dean milk the cow, but took a cautious step backward. Dean was an all-around ass and had already squirted Darren with milk. I didn\u2019t want to be next.<\/p>\n

As I stepped backward on the wet floor, I lost my footing. The back of my shoe slid into the poop trough. I had no balance, nothing to grab onto to save a fall. I wasn\u2019t yet four-foot tall, but all of me fell into the poop trough.<\/p>\n

I stood up, but it was already too late. I was covered, head to toe, in cow shit. The trough felt 900 feet deep. I remember putting my arms over the top and trying to pull myself out on my own, but the wet muck on the floor in addition to being covered in shit prevented it from happening.<\/p>\n

At first, everyone laughed and pointed. They kept telling me to \u201cuse your arm strength.\u201d Suddenly, Mom was there. She grabbed my arm at the elbow and gave a huge yank. She let go and I collapsed on the ground. Liquid shit dripped from my hair and my eyelashes.<\/p>\n

I tried to wipe my eyes. I only succeeded in causing cow shit to be smeared across my face. Somehow, I managed to stand up. I tried shaking the shit off, but there was too much of it. I could feel it squishing in between my toes and oozing into my ear canals.<\/p>\n

There was laughter and some mumbled words. It was hard to hear with all the cow shit caked in the crevices of my ears. In that moment, I panicked inside. Thoughts of punishment for not paying attention, not having a change of clothes, ruining my clothes, and a host of other things ran through my mind. How long was it going to be before I got a beating? How was I going to get home because Mom was not going to let me sit covered in shit in her van.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome outside where I can see you,\u201d Mom said.<\/p>\n

Okay, this is it. This is when I get beaten and yelled at. How do I apologize for being a dumbass kid? What do I need to do to earn the money to replace the clothes?<\/p>\n

\u201cStand over there,\u201d Mom said. She pointed to an open spot about 30 feet from the barn. I obeyed. I stood. I waited. I looked at the green grass on the ground. It was hard to see, but seemed brighter than grass usually is. There was no more laughter. Had everyone left so they weren\u2019t punished, too?<\/p>\n

Mom returned a few moments later with a hose. She turned it on full blast. She aimed at my clothes. It didn\u2019t take long to realize she was only blasting shit off my clothes. She hadn\u2019t touched my face or arms. <\/p>\n

A few minutes later, she told me to take my shoes and socks off. She hosed the shit out of them, too. I could still smell the shit on my face as it was beginning to cake dry. Next, she told me to take my clothes off. I didn\u2019t want to. She told me no one could see me. I didn\u2019t realize, but it had gone quiet because the men went back in the barn, fully aware of what was coming next.<\/p>\n

I obliged and took off my clothes. I was blasted with the hose. Front to back. Top to bottom. Every last speck of shit was sprayed away. Mom got up closer and filled her hand with water before brushing it across my face. I closed my eyes and stood there shivering as she wiped the majority of the cow shit off my face.<\/p>\n

Marc\u2019s wife, Emily, appeared with a couple of towels. She dried me off and wiped off some of the remaining shit. The other towel was to wrap around me. Mom and Emily led me into the house. Emily put my clothes, including my shoes, in the washer.<\/p>\n

I was allowed to go upstairs to get clean. This was my first ever shower. I was only allowed baths at home. I didn\u2019t stay long. I wasn\u2019t sure if I even showered correctly. I made sure there was no poop in any crack or crevice on my body.<\/p>\n

Then, I sat in the kitchen with another towel until my clothes were clean and dry. Mom and Emily talked over cups of hot tea. The stench of shit was everywhere. It burned my eyes and my nostrils. I thanked Emily for cleaning my clothes.<\/p>\n

And I never went in that barn again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Marc\u2019s farm was a right-hand turn off the highway and then down a long dirt road. I never paid attention to how we got there. I was around seven years old. The sky, the birds, anything outside the window had my attention. If I\u2019m not driving, I\u2019m not paying attention to the directions.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[482,219,483,484,257],"class_list":["post-4431","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stories","tag-cows","tag-life","tag-manure","tag-marcs-farm","tag-new-york"],"post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4431","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4431"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4431\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4435,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4431\/revisions\/4435"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4431"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4431"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4431"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}