Page 23 - Kol Bogrei Habonim - January 19

"Piss orf, Ray. I've 'ad my fill of them bleedin' new calves. You know they have to be registered
cows pissin' and shittin' all over me this mornin'.
Some silly sod left the gate open, and me and Jim
Hobbs had to chase all over Kent at five this
mornin' to get 'em in fer milkin'. In the pitch dark.
Jesus, Jim was ravin' mad."
I sat down at a table with two of the girls and
envisaged Jack stretching a dungy arm and
scattering fragments into my semolina. Naturally,
that's exactly what happened. He sat down, dung
coated jeans and all, right next to me. The two
girls didn't wait to exchange pleasantries and
promptly rose and joined another table. Jack
wasn't upset in the least, but would have thought
me very squeamish had I left. I was trying hard to
ignore the pong.
Life was pretty frugal by necessity and this was
another factor in training us for kibbutz life and
for living almost entirely without handling money.
We elected a "fags-man" (British meaning, please
note) – usually a non-smoker girl to dish out the
fags (cigarettes) to the addicts, and a "sweets-
girl", usually a boy, to give out a small, weekly
serving of confectionary.
A clash of mentalities
About a month after my arrival, I was landed with
the job of farm secretary. It involved paper work,
deputizing in the dairy and poultry coops and the
odd tractoring job. Mr. Hobbs seemed to think I
could handle it, but was furious when I was voted
in as Gar'in secretary two days later, as well as my
cultural activities. One of the administrative jobs
included recording dairy lactations, calvings,
ordering fodder and so on. Official stuff, and as
boring as a wet weekend in Wigan. I was still new
on the job, but Hobbs had no patience for
brainless Chevra decisions and was bitterly
critical of the way we handled serious matters. He
stomped into the office, livid and ready for battle.
He began by attacking the decision to vote me in
as Garin secretary, and then went on:
"Now look you 'ere…Maurice." His Geordie
speech was in full kilter, unstoppable. “There’s
anuther serious matter you have to deal with. Last
week you 'ad a meeting to discuss nairmes for the
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within three munths of birth, otherwise the Milk
Marketing Board dusn't accept their pedigrees, nar
their milk neither. If a cow isn't listed, you carn't
sell 'er, ever, even for meat. Your Chevra nairmed
six new calves born over the past six months, and
some are overdue for registration. Never mind that
now. They have to be listed in the Herd Book and
this form for registration with the nairmes of the
new heifers, dates of birth, an' all the rest… So
let's see. What nairmes did your Chevra concoct
this time?" He opened the Herd Book with a snap.
"Dairsy, Meg, Bridget… Naw, that's too normal!"
He smirked in irritation for a split second. "Aw
naw … it's gotta be Hiroshito, Little Flo, Big Flo,
and now 'ere cumes the first prize… OVERFLAW
!!!! I usk ye, Maurice lad, what kind of impression
doos it mairke when I have to answer questions at
the Milk Board, or when I go to auction at th'
cattle market? Overflaw, my eye! I feel a
complete fool whenever I have to shaw th' Herd
Book to anyone outside."
I was unprepared for this onslaught and could
only grin awkwardly. I'd seen the name Overflow
in the dairy on the milk charts and already had my
giggle. Little did he know how those poor dairies
(who would enter the milking parlour when their
names were called) got landed with their monikers
– the results of private jokes circulating inside the
Chevra. "Big Flo" was the subject of an especially
vile joke that Mike had told the Chevra one
evening, the other "Flo's" being just extensions of
it. The original Big Flo was a cow anyway! I
made a pretense of agreeing just to get him off my
back. He might have appreciated the joke, off-
duty.
"Yes, you're absolutely right about the calf-
naming business, Mr. Hobbs. I'll bring it up at the
next meeting. And I'll let them know what you
said about the other matters."
I could just imagine us lot choosing Betsy or
Gertie for calf-names. Oh, sure!
*’Overflow’ takes place at a fictional Hachsharah
farm of the “Bnei Dror” in southern England.