Milk Maid Memories

We've been milking again for about three weeks now, and even though it's slightly difficult getting back into the swing of doing milking chores twice a day, we really do enjoy it.  Whenever I'm milking the goats, I can't help but think of my grandpa Gene who milked cows for 40 years.  So, it must just be in my blood.  I wrote this essay in college about my time spent with him in the milking parlor.  Grandpa has been gone almost three years, but I can still see him standing there by his cows, and I can still see and hear the sights and sounds from that milking parlor as if it were yesterday.  So many people don't understand the farm, or the work and love that goes into caring for animals everyday for your entire life.  So, here are the memories of milking with my grandpa, and the moments of my childhood that profoundly have affected the way we live our life today:

Milk Maid Memories

                From outside, the milkhouse calls to me with its familiar song—the clanging and loud whirring of a motor, the lowing of the cows as they await their evening chore, and the Reds’ game that blares loudly from inside.  The vivid memory flashes across my brain as clearly as if it happened yesterday; I am suddenly five years old again, and it’s milking time.  Quickly, I jump up the steps and open the door.  I run past the milk tank, wince past the deafening roar of the motor that powers the milking machines, and open the door into the parlor.  The pungent smell of warm milk mixed with weathered cows hits my nose, and I smile at my grandpa.  Sitting between two doors, the metal stepladder waits for me to take my post.  Since my little five-year-old arms are not long enough to reach up to the soft, pink udders, my grandpa lets me push the button that opens the sliding door the cows enter through.  I am so proud that my grandpa gives me such a heavy responsibility, and I focus hard on him and await my cue.

                At Grandpa’s signal, I push the old, crusty button; immediately the door shudders and scrapes open.  A pink nose peeks around the corner, before the rest of her lumbers through the doorway.  I count out three more black and white beauties, and before I can shut the door, another cow tries to slip through.  When I squeal as the door clips her nose, Grandpa assures me she’ll be okay.  The cows stop, evenly spaced, in a straight line, and immediately begin crunching grain.  They wait knowingly, and carefully, my grandpa begins his dance. 

                He slowly shuffles down the line; his heavy rubber boots pound on the cement in short, clipped clomps.  Slivery tufts of hair peek out from underneath his wide-brimmed straw hat, and his big glasses nearly hide the soft, gray eyes that love me.  His yellow apron, spattered with years of toil and manure stains, flaps as he reaches for the milkers.  He does not even think; his cracked and dry hands grip the milkers automatically as he deftly slips them on each of the four teats.  The milkers begin to bob up and down as they suction the milk out with sharp hisses.  Wary of the jumpy cows that have caught his hand with a sharp hoof many times before, he checks the pipes to make sure the milk is flowing properly, then crosses the parlor to finish with the other cows.  He gently lifts an open-mouthed bottle filled with green, bubbly liquid to clean each teat, and then opens the chute to allow the cows to exit the parlor.  He moves down the line, back and forth, in a stiff but beautiful dance with the animals that have been his livelihood for over 60 years.  He signals, and I push the button once again, and four new cows enter, ready to be milked for the night.

               As soon as the milkers slip onto the next round of udders, the milk gushes through a tube toward a large, oval jar.  The milk tumbles in, spurting as it is vacuumed from the cows and pumped to the top of the jar, sloshing and frothing, as it shoots around the inside.  I press my hands and face to the glass to soak up the warmth of the foamy milk.  I run back and forth with glee between each cow’s jar to see which fills up first and which cow has the most milk tonight.  One jar is full of crimson milk, and Grandpa says it’s because the cow is sick, and her milk has to be thrown out.  When the cows finish, the jars quickly drain round and out the bottom; the milk winds through more tubes and pipes—up, down, across, through, until finally the main pipe disappears into another room where I know it will deliver its goods to the giant cooling tank.  It is time for the next group, and Grandpa has to call my name; the waterfalls of milk have distracted me, but I run to the door, startling a cow who then kicks off her milkers, and quickly punch the button.  Four new cows saunter in, and I peek around the open door to see how many are left in the holding pen.

Grandpa Gene

              Grandpa finishes with the final four cows; the Reds have won, and Grandpa shuts the radio off.  The last cow leaves the milkhouse and wanders out into the starry night, sleepily looking for the rest of her herd and a warm place to sleep.  I unscrew the black rims of the milkers to remove the dirty filters inside and throw them away into a cardboard box in the other room.  Grandpa starts to spray down the platform, while I struggle to scrape the muck into a big pile he can scoop out into the lot.  The door opens and my mom walks in.  I’m not ready, but she motion it is time to go.  I quickly hug my grandpa, avoiding the dirty mess on the front of his apron, and promise I’ll be back another night.  My innocent childhood mind assumes he cannot possibly milk his cows without his little partner.

                It has been many years since I stepped into that milkhouse with Grandpa and pushed the button to open the door for his cows.  But every baseball game I hear on the radio sends me back, and I can smell the cows, see the warm milk sloshing through the jars, and hear the clangs and dings of the loud motor which call me to my beloved stool.  Time has separated me from those happy moments, but the poignant memories still come to me as clear as the country summer nights I knew long ago.