Read Online Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl by Carol Bodensteiner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Bodensteiner
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galoshes over our shoes before we headed out the door. The first light of dawn was breaking and dew was heavy on the grass as we trekked down the hill to the barn.
Jane saw me yawn and gave me a light jab in the arm. “Get used to it,” she laughed.
Stifling another yawn, I grinned back at her and took a deep breath of cool October air that made my lungs and skin tingle. Reaching up over my head, I cupped my hands around the Morning Star as if it could hold my excitement over how grown up I felt to be heading for the barn to help milk the cows.
Each morning, Dad left the house at 4 a.m., way before it got light out, to start the milking chores. Every morning and every evening of every single day of the year he milked cows. Start to finish, the milking chores took about three hours, though the actual milking of the 50 cows only took an hour or so. When Dad went to the barn, he set the milking machines together, poured a bucket of grain in front of each stanchion, and opened the barn door for the cows to file in.
Just like chickens, cows have a pecking order so when Dad opened the barn door he knew which cows would come in first. The same 10 cows came in the first batch, the same 10 came in the second batch, and each cow always went to the same stanchion.
Milking began exactly at 5 a.m. Dad was particular in that way, as precise as his German ancestors. Mom was supposed to get up after Dad did, but sometimes she fell back to sleep and then his impatient voice at the door jolted all of us out of sleep: “Ma! It’s time to milk!” When Dad had to trek back to the house to wake Mom up, he wasn’t happy. At the sound of his gruff voice, Mom scrambled out of bed and hurried to the barn where she took over washing the cows’ udders with warm iodine water and attaching the milking machines.
When a cow finished milking, Dad took the milking bucket off the cow and emptied the warm, foamy milk into five-gallon pails. This is where Jane came in. It was her job to carry those heavy pails into the milk house and pour the milk into the bulk tank.
With time and strength, one person could milk the cows. But more hands made a difference. When any one of us wasn’t there, someone else had to carry that weight.
Nearly 12 years old, Jane had been carrying milk for a year and a half. Since she turned 10. Now I had reached that milestone and it was my turn, too.
Before I turned 10, my barn chores included feeding the calves during the evening milking and bedding their pens with fresh straw after school each day. It may sound crazy, but I aspired to carry milk, and I was more excited about getting to do that than to open any present I found on my breakfast plate that year.
On my birthday, Mom made our traditional birthday cake to celebrate—a white layer cake with chocolate pudding between the layers and fluffy white, seven-minute frosting mounded in dramatic swirls on the top and around the sides. Ten candles burned as she carried it to the table at noon and everyone sang. I looked at Dad. I looked at the candles. I wished and wished as I blew them out. Dad didn’t disappoint me.
“You come to the barn with Jane in the morning,” was all he said. I didn’t even try to hide my grin.
When Jane and I unlatched the barn door that morning and stepped into the alleyway by the calf pens, it was like I was seeing the barn and the cows and all the action for the first time, seeing it with a mind full of desire for grown-up responsibility.
“Morning, babies,” I murmured to the calves that stuck their heads through the slats and started bawling as soon as they saw us. I stopped to scratch the black-and-white hair that curled in tight whorls on their foreheads. Cats waiting for milk wound figure eights around my legs.
The barn pulsed with quiet rhythms during milking. The cows wiped up every kernel of grain from the manger with their long tongues and then stood placidly chewing their cuds, lowing occasionally in response to
Jane saw me yawn and gave me a light jab in the arm. “Get used to it,” she laughed.
Stifling another yawn, I grinned back at her and took a deep breath of cool October air that made my lungs and skin tingle. Reaching up over my head, I cupped my hands around the Morning Star as if it could hold my excitement over how grown up I felt to be heading for the barn to help milk the cows.
Each morning, Dad left the house at 4 a.m., way before it got light out, to start the milking chores. Every morning and every evening of every single day of the year he milked cows. Start to finish, the milking chores took about three hours, though the actual milking of the 50 cows only took an hour or so. When Dad went to the barn, he set the milking machines together, poured a bucket of grain in front of each stanchion, and opened the barn door for the cows to file in.
Just like chickens, cows have a pecking order so when Dad opened the barn door he knew which cows would come in first. The same 10 cows came in the first batch, the same 10 came in the second batch, and each cow always went to the same stanchion.
Milking began exactly at 5 a.m. Dad was particular in that way, as precise as his German ancestors. Mom was supposed to get up after Dad did, but sometimes she fell back to sleep and then his impatient voice at the door jolted all of us out of sleep: “Ma! It’s time to milk!” When Dad had to trek back to the house to wake Mom up, he wasn’t happy. At the sound of his gruff voice, Mom scrambled out of bed and hurried to the barn where she took over washing the cows’ udders with warm iodine water and attaching the milking machines.
When a cow finished milking, Dad took the milking bucket off the cow and emptied the warm, foamy milk into five-gallon pails. This is where Jane came in. It was her job to carry those heavy pails into the milk house and pour the milk into the bulk tank.
With time and strength, one person could milk the cows. But more hands made a difference. When any one of us wasn’t there, someone else had to carry that weight.
Nearly 12 years old, Jane had been carrying milk for a year and a half. Since she turned 10. Now I had reached that milestone and it was my turn, too.
Before I turned 10, my barn chores included feeding the calves during the evening milking and bedding their pens with fresh straw after school each day. It may sound crazy, but I aspired to carry milk, and I was more excited about getting to do that than to open any present I found on my breakfast plate that year.
On my birthday, Mom made our traditional birthday cake to celebrate—a white layer cake with chocolate pudding between the layers and fluffy white, seven-minute frosting mounded in dramatic swirls on the top and around the sides. Ten candles burned as she carried it to the table at noon and everyone sang. I looked at Dad. I looked at the candles. I wished and wished as I blew them out. Dad didn’t disappoint me.
“You come to the barn with Jane in the morning,” was all he said. I didn’t even try to hide my grin.
When Jane and I unlatched the barn door that morning and stepped into the alleyway by the calf pens, it was like I was seeing the barn and the cows and all the action for the first time, seeing it with a mind full of desire for grown-up responsibility.
“Morning, babies,” I murmured to the calves that stuck their heads through the slats and started bawling as soon as they saw us. I stopped to scratch the black-and-white hair that curled in tight whorls on their foreheads. Cats waiting for milk wound figure eights around my legs.
The barn pulsed with quiet rhythms during milking. The cows wiped up every kernel of grain from the manger with their long tongues and then stood placidly chewing their cuds, lowing occasionally in response to
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