RITUAL OF THE FAMILY COW Time was when I could get up at 5:30 in the morning; step into the fresh softness of the day's first light; stand in the shimmering wetness of a dew-tainted landscape of part-colored primness beyond the window sill, and take an easy breath of the grass-scented air. It dug deep into my lungs with wonderful abundance.
Then, feeling my way along, dressed in denim overalls I made it down to the kitchen. There, I filled my lungs with the first smoke of the day by habit which now see as a senseless part of my day then after a sort wait habit forced me to the back porch where I acquired a loose, straw hat. I then, fully committed, gabbed the milk bucket, being careful, of course, not to clang the heavy handle on the edge of the bucket. I had children sill asleep. My wife, by this time, would be stirring, I knew, creating a breakfast that would ”happen” later bacon or sausage, toast, eggs in some form,milk and coffee. It would be there when I came in from the morning ritual of milking the cow.
Closer to the barn I would “heel” my smoke in the wet grass, and looked across the field to see if our Guernsey cow “Goldie” had left her favorite site under a fine gum tree pond-side. Some mornings I had to call her in. I'd let the handle down sharply on the milk can's edge - angled towards her like a speaker cone - and she'd started a smart amble toward the feeding stall an instant later.
In the barn there was a special smell from the feed barrels and all tons of newly mown hay in loft. Several ducks would soon come out from under the feed racks and begin hissing and stalking about seeking food they could not see yet. They were tall, ed-faced ducks - all “non-quackers.” They hissed and complained a lot and always on starvation status. Milkers always threw ears of yellow corn their way before going to the end of end of the area to feed the pigs. They were often half-grown hogs eating their way happily at a momentary advantage or screaming at excessive greed of others.
Meantime, the cow was ready and waiting for the molasses flavored grain mix she loved. The milker would then take an old, bent bucket from a nail on the barn wall. He p[himself well. A few preliminary were sent along the sides of the bucket was a way to get any stray bits of grass or dirt which may have dropped from the udder area at first touch. The loud “ting” caused by that action called ”Tiger” to his tin platter nearby.
“Tiger” was our barn Cat who thought he ran the place. He got “first milk” - always. And, “seconds” as desired
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When the man stood up that signaled the end. The cat bounded to highest spot available, the ducks scattered, the cow stood still awaiting a verbally assured handful of the molasses tainted feed. The milker often added that as a special note of gratitude.
In house the sweet smell of bacon held sway, yes and fresh bread and coffee.
Nostalgia? I'd like to think it can happen at any time and in just about any line of work. Let it happen for you.
A.L.M. February 23, 2006 [c578wds]
