Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, homesteading was starting to gain traction among the counter-culture crowd. The “back-to-the-land” movement was in full swing—people were ditching city apartments for chicken coops, high heels for barefoot gardening, and TV dinners for home-baked bread. Some were chasing purity, some were chasing freedom, and some of us were just chasing the idea that having our own cow sounded like a good idea.
So, I decided to buy one. My very first. A three-day-old Holstein calf weighing about 100 pounds already—basically a toddler with hooves. She came from excellent milking lines. In fact, her mother was so well-endowed that special precautions had to be taken in the milking stanchion just to keep her from stepping on her own udder. Imagine needing a wide-load sign for your mammary equipment.
Since I didn’t own a truck or trailer, the only option was my orange VW Squareback station wagon. Not exactly designed with livestock in mind, but I figured with a little farm ingenuity, it would do. The backseat was folded down so the entire rear was one big open compartment—perfect for camping gear, groceries, or, apparently, livestock transport. And being caught up in the hippy culture of the time (minus the drugs which I never did have the desire to try; they just never seemed like a good idea), I had painted big, bright flowers all over the sides of the wagon. Tie-dyed shirts, sandals, and love beads were my uniform, so the whole setup looked like it had rolled straight out of Haight-Ashbury—except instead of guitars and incense, it was about to be cow legs and chaos.
At the seller’s farm, I told the friend who was with me, “Hog-tie her and load her in.” Simple enough. Best laid plans, right?
We weren’t halfway home when she Houdini’d her way out of the ropes, stood up in the back, and let loose. And not just any loose—scours. For those who aren’t familiar, that’s explosive, bright-yellow, bacterial diarrhea. The kind of smell that hit your sinuses like tear gas at a protest rally—sudden, burning, and unforgettable.
The sound alone was unforgettable—something between a fire hose and a custard pie fight. When we rounded a corner, she slipped in her own mess and smeared it across her hips, then stood back up and thoughtfully redecorated the floor, the side panels, and both windows. With no seatbacks or compartments to contain the chaos, every shuffle spread it farther. By the time we’d gone another mile, the VW looked like Picasso had taken up finger-painting with mustard.
We had to open the windows halfway—our only hope for oxygen—so now the stench was rolling out into traffic like a hog barn on a hot July afternoon.
Apparently, she didn’t like the smell either, because she stuck her head out the window like a Golden Retriever on a Sunday drive. And that’s when the real show began.
A businessman in a gray flannel suit slowed his Chevy, rubbed his eyes, and looked like he was ready to call his optometrist. His wife smacked his arm hard enough to spill cigarette ashes down his tie. A group of teenagers in a rusty pickup leaned halfway out their windows, flashing peace signs and shouting like we were headlining the livestock stage at Woodstock. A prim woman in a Rambler gasped, covered her child’s eyes, and gunned it as though she’d just witnessed the fall of Western civilization. A trucker laid on his air horn, then laughed so hard I thought he’d topple right out of the cab. And a poor motorcyclist nearly wobbled into the ditch trying to process what he was seeing: a Holstein calf, smeared in mustard-yellow, grinning out the window of a bright orange flower-power Volkswagen. Try explaining that to your insurance agent.
Meanwhile, there I was at the wheel—tie-dyed shirt, sandals, and love beads clattering against the steering wheel—looking like the poster child for peace and love. The outside said “flower power,” the inside said “toxic spill site,” and the calf said “moo.”
We finally rattled into the driveway, eyes watering and gag reflexes exhausted. The calf got unloaded, medicated, and settled in, while the VW sat steaming in the sun, radiating enough odor to make the local skunks pack up and move.
Now came the cleanup. The VW had the engine in the back, which meant if we just blasted it with the hose, we’d risk frying the motor. So, we parked it nose-up on the hill, stripped out everything that wasn’t bolted down, and covered the engine with plastic like we were prepping it for open-heart surgery. Then came the power washer.
Picture this: two people armed with rubber gloves, boots, and expressions usually reserved for crime-scene investigators. Spray. Soap. Scrub. Gag. Repeat. The runoff looked like something a Civil Defense crew should’ve handled. I half-expected the neighbors to roll up in gas masks left over from air-raid drills or Walter Cronkite to break in with a “special report.”
By the end, the VW looked cleaner, but the smell? Let’s just say it never again passed as “family friendly.” I had to hang so many cardboard pine trees from the rearview mirror that the dashboard looked like a lumberjack’s Christmas tree lot. Even then, it smelled less like “pine fresh” and more like a porta-potty at Woodstock.
Our clothes? Straight to the burn pile.
The car? Forever
carried the faint whiff of barnyard regret.
The calf? Worth every
stinking second.
The friendship of the guy who rode with me? Still
intact—but let’s just say he never wanted to take another road
trip in my car again.
And because her mother was so generously built, I named the calf Francine—after Francine Gottfried, the young secretary who caused gridlock on Wall Street in September 1968 when throngs of men abandoned their desks just to watch her daily commute. Newspapers called her “Wall Street’s Sweater Girl.”
My calf didn’t own a sweater, but believe me—she had the same, uh, “qualifications.”
And much like her namesake, Francine left a mark that nobody forgot—though in my case, it was baked into every crevasse of the car, right down to the ventilation system that puffed Eau de Cow every time you turned on the fan.
©2025 AWF
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