Mark Richards was on the phone, but I had trouble hearing him. There was a lot of banging going on.

“Get out of there,” Mark shouted. The clanking only grew louder. Then it went silent. For an instant I thought Mark had dropped his cellphone. It sounded like a scuffle with a few expletives. Was Mark coming under attack? The answer was no, but a young bull interested in cows was kicking up a fuss. He wanted to be in the barn, too. Mark wasn’t ready for that, although since the beginning of the year he has raised and sold more than one heifer and he’s looking to raise more.

Mark is one of the sons of Tim and Linda Richards, who ran the dairy farm down the road from the home my great aunt and uncle built in upstate New York. As I remember, the Richardses had a herd of about 185 cows, of which about 155 were milkers and the rest “dry.” Like banks, food markets and pharmacies, small, independent dairy farms like that run by the Richards family are no match for the giant ones with thousands of mikers. Fields that once grew corn are now rotated between being left fallow and supporting a herd of fewer than 100 grass-fed cattle by a new farmer whose good-paying job is 60 miles away in Albany.

When the Richards family ran it, the farm was a source of complaint. The road runs through the middle of the place and it was frequently spotted with cow pies, its muddy shoulders deeply rutted from tractors. Nearby, derelict farm equipment rusted under vines and weeds. Barns needed doors and roofs.  It was a mess. But, on the other hand, it was alive. The Richardses had a harem of barn cats, a couple of dogs that were always friendly and an untold number of chickens, ducks, geese and occasionally a couple of turkeys. The family was up early for the morning milking and some summer mornings I’d wander over knowing I’d find them at the milking barn to catch up on the local gossip.

On one visit, Mark, his brother Matt and their father found the time to chat between all their chores. I stood facing the three of them when I got this feeling we were not alone. I turned to find a collection of fowl, a dog, several cats and a cow taking in our conversation. They were all part of the family. I felt the attraction of a farm beyond the pulse of the seasons with the sowing, harvesting and all the hard work that goes in between.

On a smaller scale, I suppose it’s comparable to caring for a pet. They are dependent on you, although I’ve wondered over the years whether one of our dogs – that’s Ollie the spotted coon hound – cared more for chasing down a scent than being part of the family.

Mark now has a full-time job with a roofing company, but he comes home to a menagerie. He’s the provider for a flock of chickens that provide him with enough eggs and then some, he’s got a pig or two and then, of course, about six cows and a young bull feeling his oats. To make it work, he hays several nearby fields, which requires working equipment (he was in the market for a new tractor engine when we talked) and the help of his sons and extended family.

It could hardly be called idyllic.

I’m content mowing the lawn, leaving the gardening to Carol, savoring a fresh-picked cherry tomato and having Farrah sit for a chicken morsel at the dinner table.

I’ll get my communion with nature when I visit Mark, and I’ll be happy to meet the bull … from the opposite side of the fence.