Cows gone, a dairyman till the end

CHAPEL HILL -- On 300 acres where hundreds of pricey homes now sit, the silo is the only hint that a languid herd of milk cows used to roam. They were 125 strong and gave milk that Bill Hogan and his family drank raw, creamy and straight from the tank.

The milk from those cows had sustained Hogan and his parents before him since the 1930s. But as Chapel Hill grew, Lake Hogan Farm on Homestead Road started feeling the pressure of development.

On land that had done service as a farm, a popular recreation area and even home to UNC's Rameses mascot, it became increasingly difficult to keep up their way of life.

In 1995, Hogan and his brother sold much of the farmland that had been in their family for 200 years. One day he was milking cows. The next, he was retired.

William F. "Bill" Hogan died in May of emphysema. He was 75.

Hogan was born in 1932 at Lake Hogan Farm in a homeplace his father built.

The youngest of four children raised in that house, he attended N.C. State University, served in the U.S. Air Force and came home to work with the cows. That he would become a dairyman was a foregone conclusion. It was the family business.

Hogan met his wife, Carolyn, at her sister's wedding. She was a city girl from Burlington; moving to the farm was a shock. The cows were curious creatures, and she remembers heading to the barn with her firstborn, how the huge animals were drawn to the new baby.

There were some things Carolyn Hogan was not interested in doing -- milking, for example.

"I never touched one of those udders," she said.

That didn't mean Bill Hogan didn't help with domestic duties. In an era when it was rare for a man to wipe a baby's bottom, Hogan changed diapers, cooked, hung clothes on the line to dry.

Shaking milk

Most of the milk the dairy produced was sold to a local processor, except for what the Hogans drank. Fresh from the cows' udders, it quickly separated into cream, sometimes two inches thick.

Before drinking, you'd have to give the bottle a vigorous shake. Hogan never stopped shaking, even after the farm was sold and his milk came from the store.

"Daddy could never get used to drinking pasteurized milk," said Kim Hogan, his daughter.

Life on the farm, side by side with his brother, father and two uncles, was hard. Taking care of so many animals is back-breaking, exhausting work that doesn't allow for lazy weekend mornings. The Hogans' herd of black-and-white Holsteins had to be milked twice a day. Besides the milking cows, there were 75 calves and breeders to care for.

But Hogan, 6 feet tall and full-bellied, did find time for gardening, competing with neighbors to see whose land yielded the best produce. Once, he harvested a giant tomato. Rather than eat it, he gave it to his neighbor and claimed bragging rights.

When Hogan joined the business in the mid-1950s, the farm boasted a popular attraction. A 12-acre lake built to serve the animals evolved into a recreation area for the entire county. There was a dock and rope swings, concession stands, softball fields and a picnic table 100 feet long beneath the oaks. Before the era of Jordan Lake or Kerr Lake, the Hogans' watering hole made memories.

For years, UNC-Chapel Hill alumni would show up to reminisce there, at the place where the Hogans lovingly cared for Rameses, the beloved Tar Heels' mascot.

The Hogan family tree can trace its Orange County roots to 1757, when ancestors received a chunk of the rolling countryside as part of a land grant.

For generations, it was just Hogans on the land -- aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents. The children of the family grew up clambering onto tractors and hitching a ride on the back of a cow. The farm was their playground.

But as the children grew, so did the small college town around them.

Just six miles from Franklin Street, Lake Hogan Farm's 500 acres used to be considered "in the sticks." It was just trees and grass as far as the eye could see. Now the former farmland supports 400 new homes. Another 300 are under construction between where the dairy used to be and Chapel Hill High School.

The day the trucks pulled up to the farm to collect the cows for transport to another dairy, Hogan stood and watched. Saying goodbye was sad, but at the same time, it was liberating.

"It was a lot of work for not a lot of money," said Hogan's son Chris, who worked alongside him. "The responsibility of having 200-plus mouths to feed every day kind of weighs on you."

Chapel Hill continues to be a sought-after place to put down roots. Chris Hogan, now a real estate agent, has even sold a house built on his family's former farm.

Someday, the family realizes, more of the farmland may be developed. Bill Hogan had spoken about his desire for a conservation easement on the land, a way to preserve at least some of its natural beauty for generations still to come whose last name is not Hogan.

His children intend to move forward with that plan.

* * *

Bill Hogan is survived by his wife, Carolyn, one daughter, two sons and three grandchildren.