Province shouldn't muck with man's milk

When you drink milk direct from the cow, your only concern should be getting ambushed by the barn cats.
The story about the authorities raiding the farmer for selling unpasteurized milk took me back to my birth.
Born in the summer of '45, I tipped the scales at three pounds, three ounces. Within a week of my arrival, I lost half a pound.
The good people at the local hospital did the only thing they could do — handed me over to my grandfather.
Once I was home on the farm, Grampa launched his LSx2 plan. Indeed, life-saving and life-sustaining hinged on my grandfather.
Grampa quickly determined the weight of any clothes or blankets would tire me out. In the interest of saving energy, I was placed buck naked on a pillow, while Grampa tucked a tiny rubber sheet under my bottom. 
My grandfather then prepared his baby-saving instruments: A sterilized eye dropper from a large iodine bottle and a nanny goat.
Using his fine-tuned goat-milking skills and a sterilized baby bottle borrowed from my 13-month-old sister,  Grampa collected my food four times a day. 
Every two hours, 'round the clock, Grampa filled the eye dropper, squirted the milk into my mouth and offered a few words of encouraqement.   
Between feedings, Grampa talked to me, sang to me and whistled. I grew to like my little spot on the pillow. Grampa slept when I slept. It was a good arrangement.
Within seven weeks of my premature birth, I had gained two pounds, was wearing clothes and was nestled in the arms of my mother.
Life was good. I was alive, my mother had recovered from the difficult birth, the nanny goat was put to pasture and my grandfather was catching up on his sleep.   
When I was a toddler, I graduated to drinking raw cow's milk.
However, I did most of my milk drinking in the barn.
My dad, a skilled-hand milker, would reach down to the cow's utter, grab a teat and squirt warm milk directly into my mouth.
A few drops of warm raw milk always fell to the floor, triggering the quick arrival of about 10 hungry barn cats. My dad would then squirt milk in the direction of the leaping cats. It may not have been the most efficient method to feed cats, but it was an excellent way to make a kid giggle. 
Years later, the farming industry and government decided unpasteurized milk killed people. The pasteurization process — heating milk to at least 63C for 30 minutes — became a legal requirement in Ontario.
While I embrace the modernization of the farming industry and I respect the law, I'd like to join Thornhill resident and organic food advocate Richard Chomko to tell the province to get it's hands off all raw-milk production.
I do this in the memory of my grandfather and his goat.

Comments

[todd]

Great story, thanks for sharing. My dad was premature and was basically sent home to die. He says he was put in a basket behind the wood stove. I don't know what they fed him--probably raw milk, too, as he grew up on a farm.