Women in agriculture: Claire Summerson
When FW asked readers to vote for the greatest figure in agriculture over the past 75 years, they were unequivocal. It’s been, they said, the farmer’s wife. Claire Summerson is one of five women we asked to give us a snapshot into this multi-faceted, varied and ever-changing role
My sister and I are pregnant – both of us due in May.My dairy farmer husband Martin has become an authority on my pregnancy; he keeps comparing me to a dairy cow and referring to me as a first calver. He says the doctor’s dates are all wrong because according to his dairy calving chart I am due much later. He also likes to point out that it was very inconvenient of me to be due to calve right on silage time.
Then, before I can fit in a word of protest, he smiles and winks and says: “Haven’t got time to discuss this now, I have work to do.” Or: “I won’t be in before 10 tonight.”
It’s those other women stealing his time, you see, all 62 of them, with their beautiful brown eyes and long eyelashes. I am married to herd of cows, not just a man.
However, I have been banned from calf feeding and standing in the parlour. He thinks I have turned to glass now I am pregnant. He says he would never forgive himself if anything happened to me. So I sit in the house like a good wife, being sick and doing bits and pieces of housework inbetween. I have lost half a stone in weight but they tell me it will get better.
We have more cows now so milking is taking longer, up to two-and-a-half hours twice a day. I am lucky if I see Martin before half-eight on a night. On the farm we also have a herd of Aberdeen Angus beef cows. I have Poppy (a black Labrador) to keep me company on a weekend and I am at work during the week teaching in an infants’ school.
I no longer – unfortunately for Martin – can cook full English breakfasts. I can get as far as a frying pan full of hot oil, but as soon as the tender slices of bacon begin to turn that beautiful shade of brown I have to make an Olympic-style sprint for the loo. Poor Martin is having to do without or cook it himself when I am not around.
Meanwhile it is a very exciting time. We have a lot to think about and discuss and I never seem to be off the phone. We are again trying to get through another year of low milk prices. Recently, the company we provide milk to said we had to change to a liquid contract. This means our high protein and butterfat milk will be worth less.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that if I can’t go in with the cows I might as well solve our chicken problem. We have two hens that live on our lawn, Rhode Island Red x Light Sussex. They are named Bob (Roberta) and Susie. They always have a full feeder, plenty of grit and fresh water. However, recently they have discovered that eggs are very tasty and keep eating them.
I talked to a local farmer who told me I should try giving them a mustard egg, so I decided to give this a try. I took my last egg and figured out how to get the inside out without breaking the shell. I put holes in the egg with a pin and blew into it. I was amazed it worked – this must be sucking eggs, I thought to myself.
I then got a syringe and filled the egg with mustard. I put it in their run and hid. Bob swaggered up to the egg, pecked it open and started eating it; I waited for a squawk or a shake of the head. Nothing happened. She ate all the mustard. I tried again but both hens seem to like mustard. My hens were seasoning themselves. Maybe I should try sage and onion next time.
When Martin came in for tea there was no mustard, no bacon (unless he cooked it himself) and no eggs. Pregnancy really does change everything…
