WEBVTT

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Creeping across the pasture land. Got dirt on

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the boots and a working hand. From the milk house

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home to the auction call. These are the folks

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standing strong and tall. Yeah, this is... I'm

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going to be honest with you. This episode is

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different. No market numbers, no genetic evaluations,

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no industry controversy. Today we're telling

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a story. It's Christmas Eve, and while most of

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the world is settling in by the tree, you know

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where you'll be, where you always are. The barn.

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This one's called Twas the Night Before Christmas

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in the Freestall Barn. And if you've ever pulled

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coveralls over your pajamas, argued with a robot

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alarm at midnight, or watched a calf take her

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first steps while the rest of the world slept.

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This one's for you. Here we go. Before we get

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into today's episode, I want you to do something

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for me. If you're listening to this on Christmas

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Eve, or Christmas morning, or maybe the day after

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while you're catching your breath, I want you

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to know this one's for you. This is a story.

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A Christmas story. But not the kind with sleigh

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bells and miracles. The kind with frozen wash

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lines and robot alarms and a calf that picks

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the worst possible moment to show up. You know?

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Your kind of Christmas. Let's start here. Pinterest

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says Christmas Eve is matching pajamas and a

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crackling fire. Families gathered around trees

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trimmed to perfection. Mugs of hot cocoa. Bing

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Crosby on the speaker. Snow falling gently outside

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frost -kissed windows. That's what Christmas

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Eve looks like. For everyone else. Yours looks

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different. Yours has coveralls yanked over those

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flannel pajama pants because nobody's putting

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on real clothes at 1047 p .m. Yours has manure

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frozen to boots you swore you'd scrape last Tuesday.

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Yours has a robot alarm that doesn't know what

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silent night means. While the world sleeps, your

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barn hums on like it never got the memo. So,

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let me tell you about the Henderson family. It's

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Christmas Eve night. The freestall is quiet.

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or what passes for quiet when 400 cows are chewing

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cud in unison. Steam rises off warm backs in

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the December air. Headlights from Kevin's pickup

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bounce off the silos as he pulls in for the late

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check, catching snowflakes that have just started

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falling. Inside the milk house, the bulk tank

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compressor kicks through its cycle. Someone has

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taped a crooked paper snowflake to the office

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window. A strand of dollar store Christmas lights

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hangs over the computer monitor. The same ones

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from three years ago that nobody ever bothered

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to take down. The whole family is here tonight.

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Kevin and Laura, running on their fourth wind

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of the day. Their daughter Megan, home from her

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ag program, still wearing her university hoodie

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under her car heart. Grandpa Dale, 82 years old,

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and still convinced nobody can spot a fresh cow

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like he can. And Miguel, their herdsman of 11

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years, who turned down Christmas Eve off because

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And I quote, The cows don't know what day it

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is, boss. Megan's little cousins had visited

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earlier in the evening. And now there's glitter

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tracked through the parlor, mixed with straw

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and lime, sparkling under the fluorescence like

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someone had bedazzled the concrete. Miguel calls

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out from across the barn. Found your Santa hat.

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He's holding up a soggy red heap. 3267 was chewing

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on it. Laura sighs. That's the third one she's

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stolen this week. Some cows have absolutely no

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respect for the season. 11 .23 PM. The robot

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alarm goes off. Not the gentle ping. The angry

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one. The one that sounds like the machine is

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filing a formal grievance with HR. Kevin's phone

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buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't even look at

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the screen. Lely's throwing a fit. Which one?

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Laura asks, though she already knows. Unit 2.

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The temperamental one. The one they've nicknamed

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Karen. Kevin trudges through the alley. boots

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crunching on frozen concrete. The cows barely

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lift their heads. They've seen this movie before.

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He finds the problem before he even sees the

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error code. Frost climbing the wash line connections.

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Ice crystals visible where the fitting meets

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the housing. Frozen wash line. Christmas Eve.

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Because of course. We promised the kids we'd

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be in by midnight, Laura says. Her breath is

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visible in the cold air. Kevin is already grabbing

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the heat gun. Cows don't care what the calendar

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says. Megan appears at his elbow. I can help.

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You should go in. Your mom made those cookies.

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Dad. She grabs a wrench. I've been home three

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days. Let me do something. Here's the thing about

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a frozen wash line. You don't just heat it and

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hope for the best. Cracks happen. Seals fail.

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The last thing anyone needs is a flood in the

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robot room at midnight on Christmas Eve. So Miguel

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shuts down the wash system and preps to run diagnostics

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once the line thaws. Grandpa Dale shuffles in

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from the maternity pen, his walker clicking on

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concrete. Frozen line? He asks. Yup. Dale nods.

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Like this is exactly what he expected from the

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universe. Winter of 87, he says. We had a blizzard

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hit Christmas Eve. Power out for 14 hours. Your

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grandmother and I hand -milked a dozen cows by

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flashlight. Took us half the night. Hands so

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cramped we couldn't make fists. Thought we'd

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lose the whole tank. Did you? Megan asks. Neighbor

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drove through two -foot drifts at 4 a .m. with

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a generator in his truck bed. Didn't call ahead,

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just showed up. Dale's eyes crinkle. That's how

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it worked back then. Still does, if you're paying

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attention. Now, Laura's brother -in -law, Tom?

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He married into the family five years ago. Marketing

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guy from the city. Nice enough. Absolutely useless

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in a barn. But tonight, Tom is standing in the

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freestall doorway, wearing dress shoes that will

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never recover from this decision. Anything I

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can do? Laura looks up, surprised. You don't

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have to. Sarah sent me. That's Laura's sister,

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who has finally learned that just a quick barn

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check never means quick. Said you might need

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hands. Tom shrugs. I don't know what I'm doing,

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but I can hold things. Kevin hands him a flashlight.

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Point that at the connection. Don't move. And

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Tom? He holds that flashlight like his life depends

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on it. Doesn't complain when his fingers go numb.

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Doesn't say a word when a cow sneezes directly

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onto his Christmas sweater. Sometimes. No days

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off only makes sense when you're standing in

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a frozen barn at midnight, holding a flashlight

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you don't know how to use. The Farm Life Instagram

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influencers? They're asleep right now. The Christmas

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card photos never show this part. 11 .52 p .m.

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The line is thawed. Kevin runs his hand along

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the connections, checking for cracks. Miguel

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cycles the wash system through a full reset,

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20 minutes of waiting, watching the diagnostics

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crawl across the screen, before Karen the lelly

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finally clears herself and accepts her first

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cow without further complaint. Megan leans against

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the alley rail, watching the herd settle. One

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of the older Holsteins, a big cow they call Nana,

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12 years old and somehow still milking strong,

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lowers herself into a stall with a contented

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groan. You ever think about how weird this is?

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Megan says. Weird how? Miguel asks. Right now,

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millions of people are asleep, opening presents,

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watching movies, and we're here, making sure

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there's milk for their cereal in the morning.

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Nobody answers for a moment. They don't think

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about it, Kevin finally says. They shouldn't

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have to. That's the whole point. Outside, the

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snow falls harder. The security light casts a

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blue glow over the yard. A calf in the hutches

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balls once, then settles. The bulk tank compressor

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hums its familiar rhythm, silage and warm animals

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and quiet breathing. Nothing poetic about it,

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really. Just a barn doing what barns do. 11 .58

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p .m. Grandpa Dale calls out from the maternity

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pen. Got a live one! The whole crew moves, even

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Tom, still gripping his flashlight. In the straw

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under the heat lamp, a big red and white cow

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is finishing the hardest work of her night. And

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a calf, wet. wobbly, still figuring out how legs

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work, is already trying to stand. Heifer, Dale

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announces, grinning. Christmas calf, Laura laughs.

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The real kind, not the tired kind. What are the

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odds? On this farm, Kevin wipes his hands on

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his coveralls, about average. They watch the

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calf take her first shaky steps. No drama, no

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miracles, just a heifer doing what calves do.

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But standing there, family and crew, cold air

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and warm animals, it felt like something worth

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being present for. The walk to the house is short

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and cold, snow crunching underfoot, barn lights

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still glowing behind them, boots kicked off in

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the mudroom, coveralls on hooks, straw and glitter

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tracked to the kitchen again, and nobody cares.

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Sarah has kept the coffee warm, cookies on the

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counter, slightly burned on the bottom, perfect

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for dunking. The microwave clock reads 1234 AM.

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Kevin's phone sits on the table. screen lit up

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with a half dozen Merry Christmas texts he hasn't

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had time to check. Tom is explaining to his kids

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why his shoes are destroyed, somehow making it

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sound like an adventure. Megan hands Grandpa

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Dale his coffee, fixed the way he likes it. Miguel

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grabs three cookies before anyone can object.

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Kevin stands by the window for a moment, looking

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back toward the barn. The lights are still on

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out there. They always are. So, to every dairy

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family listening tonight. Or tomorrow morning.

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Or whenever you finally get a minute to hit play.

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Your barn doesn't know it's Christmas. Your cows

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don't care about carols. Your robots will alarm

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whenever they please. And your calves will arrive

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at the least convenient moment possible. You'll

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show up anyway. You always do. While everyone

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else sleeps, you're the reason there's milk for

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morning coffee. Butter for holiday rolls. Cheese

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for someone's grandmother's recipe. You keep

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breakfast on the table. Nobody writes carols

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about that. Doesn't rhyme as well as chestnuts

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roasting. So here's to you. The midnight checks

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and frozen lines. The teenagers who choose to

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stay and help. The grandparents who've seen worse

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and kept going. The crews who say, I'll be here,

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like it's nothing, when it's everything. What

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you do won't show up on a milk check, but it

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keeps the whole thing running. Merry Christmas

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from all of us at The Bullvine. Rest when you

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can. And remember, The cows will need you again

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in six hours, no matter what day it is. Now go

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eat those cookies. You've earned them. That was

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Twas the Night Before Christmas in the Freestall

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Barn. From everyone here at the Bullvine, thank

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you. Thank you for showing up every single day,

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holidays included. If this story felt like your

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life, do us a favor. Share it with someone who

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gets it. Another dairy family, your crew. Maybe

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that brother -in -law who's finally starting

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to understand what no days off actually means.

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You can find this episode and the full written

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feature at www .thebullvine .com. We'll be back

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after Christmas with more news, more analysis,

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and more of the truth the dairy industry needs

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to hear. But for now, rest when you can. Merry

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Christmas, and we'll see you in the vine.
