Remembering Dr Scott Tripp

I saw my coworker Jessie on my way out to my truck.  We stopped and talked for a few minutes as usual, catching up on the latest happenings around the farm.

"Did you hear the cows Wednesday afternoon?" I asked her.

"No, I've been everywhere at once this week, but I haven't been up this way at all," she said, indicating two barns with cattle of all sizes milling around contentedly, doing whatever it is cows do when nothing is amiss in their world.

In the years that my son Jimmie and I worked for Dr Scott P. Tripp we  learned a lot about common sense from mother cows. They have very little tolerance for nonsense from the boys, be they human or bovine.  It was downright comical to hear Ella stop on her way to milking and bawl out the steers for breaking their water trough, diverting the cowhands, and making them late.  I was grateful to Annie when she pointed her head at Jimmie and called him down for carrying a hay bale too high on the tractor forks. I was amazed to see old Winnie turn her head at the mention of "Scott" or "Judy" by name. They knew what mattered most.

Scott and his wife Judy gave each cow his or her own name. Who would guess that someone who only says, "Moo" actually has quite an extensive vocabulary of understood words.  They might have lost an ear tag long ago, but once their name was written down it remained with that number, and when possible, it was never forgotten.  Scott taught us how to read and communicate in their language as well as the particulars of caring for them and promoting good health. When your boss is a well-known large animal vet as well as a farmer, he pretty much leaves no stone unturned.

"Leave no stone unturned."  That could be a motto engraved for all time somewhere on the farm property surrounding Rock Wall Garden. Scott's work is everywhere.  Beautiful quartz boulders discovered during some earthmoving project, and hauled home with ancient heavy equipment became the retaining walls supporting the orchard plot, and  greenhouse area, as well as Scott  and Judy's own front yard.

Wherever you see gravel you see Scott's continued love of all things pertaining to rock. If a problem could be solved with rock or gravel, then that problem would be solved as soon as the backhoe and army truck could be fueled and started.  Even if an issue was not directly related to rock screens, tractor buckets, and box scrapes, Scott would often translate it until it was.

One important point that Scott and Judy both stressed again and again, was never to raise your voice around the cows.  Their hearing is very sensitive. Scott's own voice, low and musical, cultivated by years of public speaking, singing, and yes, talking to the cows, caught their attention easily.   Cows can make a lot of noise communicating with each other and with their humans.  Most of it sounds chaotic, except for when a mother cow talks or hums a note to her baby. Other than that last instance, I would say from experience  I have never, ever heard cows sing.

That is, until Wednesday, January 3rd at 2:00 in the afternoon.

I had to stop by the greenhouse to shut a door that had blown open in the wind.  I jumped out of the truck, leaving it running, intending to come right back, but when I heard the cows I stopped.  Both barns swelled with a chorus of musical tones that rose and fell in simple harmony together.  The sound was very unlike the normal random moos that I had heard as I worked next to their pens.  Not only was it sweet, with the character of woodwinds or an accordion, it pulsed steadily with a solemn, chanting  rhythm. I had never heard anything like it -or so I thought.

A storm was coming.  I had a firewood to bring in, so after walking along the barns to make sure that the cows were not in any trouble that I could see, I decided to go back to my house.  I saw quite a few cars parked outside Scott and Judy's home and wondered if the family had all gathered.  Could it be? I had known since earlier that week that Scott was very near to leaving us. Later that afternoon a son-in-law kindly messaged me to let me know that Scott was finally at rest.

During the days that followed, we did what neighbors do, helping where we could, just trying to process the absence of someone who had been such an important and loved part of our lives. I thought some more about the cows and decided to read up on the subject of cows and music. I was astonished at the information I found. Apparently cows LOVE classical music, especially if it is slow tempo and low pitched.

Going through the files in my head of all the classical music I knew, I tried to remember if I had ever heard anything before that resembled what I had heard from the cows. There  is a fairly well-known piece “Lachrymossa” taken from Mozart’s great funeral mass “Requiem.” That piece reminded me somewhat of the barnyard music still on my mind. I thought perhaps somewhere hidden in that magnificent work there might be a connection with nature. Maybe there would be a hint to mere humans like myself as to where a great composer or yes,  even great animals could have gone to derive such music. I decided to listen to the Requiem from the beginning.

I went downstairs by the fire , found the Requiem and began listening to the opening measures. I strained to catch the first notes, barely audible.  It was very beautiful, somewhat familiar...maybe.  Then the woodwinds became more prominent.  I was not prepared for the physical reaction I felt at the sound. I literally froze. It gave me chills.  There it was!   The  slow, chanting rhythm, catching its breath with every upbeat. The sustained sweet harmony of the woodwinds.  As nearly as I could remember, the cows had used only two or three pitches, but the sounds were definitely organized into some sort of song.  They sang with and for each other, because the purpose of a requiem is to bring peace to the living.

Did their master hear them?  I don't know. They stood together on the creek banks of his own property, consoling one another as he began the passage across the River that would separate him from his herd . At heart Scott was truly a shepherd.  His favorite Christmas carol was "Do You Hear What I Hear?"  Sometimes shepherds hear and see things that are witnessed by nobody else.  His journey was completed around 3:00 pm.

And then I remembered one last fact about that strangely beautiful performance. Their heads were extended as they sang, and they were facing Scott and Judy's house.