It wasn’t until recently that I realized just how much goes into a glass of milk—meaning the hard work and dedication, and I’m not talking about the cow.
My aunt had a dream: build a farm and be a farmer. Seems reasonable. Why not have fresh vegetables, farm-raised meat, and eggs? She even went a step further and invited the public to share in this dream. She enlisted the help of her sisters, and they in turn enlisted the help of their kids. Some of the kids in the family will lead you to believe it’s forced labor, and I suppose it can be when you are 14 and picking weeds.
The new milk cow came on a Saturday. After a long day, we were excited with the prospect of fresh milk, and this one was promised to deliver six gallons a day. Problem was, none of us had much experience with milking a cow. (No details such as these ever seem to bother my aunt.) Since Ginger, the cow, showed up earlier than the milking machine, it seemed that this girl was going to have to be milked by hand. How hard could it be? Our family spent the day cleaning out the milking stall, readying the buckets, and preparing the metal contraption that would eventually hold the cow while milking.
I was excited but not exactly keen on the act of milking, but when 7 p.m. hit I was out in the barn with everyone else. Ginger knew exactly what to do; after all, this wasn’t her first rodeo, and she went right into the stall. Waiting for her inside was a wheelbarrow of sweet grain for her to snack on, and she dug in. We all gathered around and watched as my aunt pulled up a stool and proceeded to milk.
I don’t know what it was I was expecting to see, but what I saw was one skinny little stream of warm milk landing in the bottom of a huge stainless steel bucket. This was going to take forever. In my mind I was thinking of that image that I’m sure everyone has of the farmer holding two udders and rhythmically squeezing out large streams of beautiful white milk, filling that bucket in no time.
What did happen was everyone grabbing an udder and taking a turn—each of us thinking we had HOLY COW! — the magic touch. When the bottom of the bucket could no longer be seen and we all felt some sense of accomplishment, Ginger took charge and put her foot in the bucket. Only an hour of work ruined.
We started again, all of us gathered around her, taking turns milking, milking, and milking. Then, of course, she kicked the bucket, sending what little we had all over the ground. Frustration set in, and those of us with less patience than others (meaning me) walked away. I decided to line myself up with the front of the cow instead. I watched her eat, oblivious to the fact that she had six different people handling her in ways that sometimes seemed comic.
I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday night—surrounded by my family, covered in milk and dirt. It’s true, the family that farms together, stays together.