Al had telephoned me before I left New Rochelle, to tell me that he had been successful in purchasing two milking machines, that they were installed and the cows were being broken in to the change from hand-milking. This, of course, had been a necessity, inasmuch as during his lifetime he had never even thought about the possibility of being called upon to hand-milk a cow. In the course of some past conversation I had inadvertently mentioned that while on the farm in Canada, reputedly I had been considered a fast and good hand-milker—but little did I expect that on this, the first evening, I would be put to the acid test.
Our short trip in the family car from the bus stop to the farm had taken but a few minutes, and I could see that the man in my life was in high good humor and very happy. As we entered the curving driveway and I was craning my neck to again get a view of the house, I heard his voice say, rather nervously,—”The milking machines seem to be temporarily out of order, the serviceman can’t get here until tomorrow, tonight’s milking will have to be done by hand, do you think you can still milk a cow?”
It took a few seconds before this question actually registered with me, and it is strange how one reacts under pressure. The first thing that came to my mind was the well-publicized and true tale of the Wall Street Banker, who on that “Black Tuesday” in Oct. 1929, when the stock market crashed and completely wiped him out financially, straightened his shoulders, held his head high and remarked, “Thank God, I can still milk a cow.” My next thought was that my whole future as a success or failure could well hinge on whether or not I could meet this first challenge. I looked at my freshly manicured, long, tapered nails and wondered if I could quickly lay hands on my nail file so that they could be shortened and rounded, and hopefully fool the cow into thinking that she was not in the hands of a novice.
At that moment it was instilled in me that on a working farm, time is of the essence. It would have seemed normal and certainly enjoyable, had I been able to take the time to relax and stroll casually through the thirteen rooms of this old and sound Greek Revival house. I would have been planning the placing of the furniture, marveling at the beautifully inlaid paneling, the hand doweling, the extra-wide hand-planed pine flooring, the restoring and modernizing that would have to be done later. However, it was milking time! Those words on a dairy farm correspond perhaps to the command of “Charge!” in army vernacular. I learned immediately that always—but always—the animals, fowl, field work, chores and usually the hired men, came first.
The furniture van had preceded me by a day. It had been unloaded and all of the pieces, boxes, rugs, etc., crowded into two of the downstairs rooms. The people we were buying from were still in residence with all of their effects. So I suggested that while I try to find where I had packed my new farm work clothes and get quickly changed into them, that a bed be brought upstairs and set up so that we would have a place to lay our weary heads later that evening. My husband was so relieved that I hadn’t flown into a rage when the milking episode came up that he was receptive to anything I said. I have wondered since at what point he changed and regained the initiative!
Soon, dressed in blue denims, sport shirt, red bandanna encircling my new coiffure, my feet encased in knee-high, black rubber pull-on farm boots, I announced to all that I was ready to approach what lay ahead at the bar. As I stepped through the stable door, preceded by Pup and followed closely by Al, I stood a moment drinking in the scene. I became aware of a delightfully sweet, unusual fragrance which I discovered was coming from the properly cured, mixed clover hay that was liberally spread in the feed bunks in front of the rows of cows and on which they were chewing with relish. I did a quick take of the cow stable, noticing that the animals were standing knee deep in dry, clean golden oat and wheat straw, that everything looked neat and immaculate and I began to feel more encouraged. I tried hard not to notice or dwell on the gutter, as I had visions of the probability that one of these same quiet-looking females might very well take exception to someone fresh from Fifth Avenue having the temerity and/or foolhardiness to attempt to extract from her “Nature’s most perfect food.” I knew that a well-placed kick could not only do damage to my physical being and self confidence, but also play havoc with my new, clean play clothes. Realizing that full-speed-ahead was perhaps the right approach, I asked for a pail, a milking stool, and a quiet, even-tempered cow. The shiny, tin, twelve-quart mill pail handed to me was quite acceptable, but not so the stool. These three-legged, small, round or square-topped wooden milking stools may be manna to the eyes of antique collectors and when properly rubbed down and refinished look quaint in a rumpus room, but as a working tool they leave much to be desired. I asked in a timid voice if there was a platform stool available, which was all I had ever been exposed to on the farm in Canada. I could readily see that the farmer thought the whole thing a waste of time, however, he did locate one, dusted it off, handed it to me and suggested that I try my hand at a cow known as Blossom. I tried to quickly assess the situation and having caught what I thought was a twinkle in his eye and the suggestion of a tongue-in-cheek smile on his face, I figured that I was probably being taken in, so declined that particular cow and said that the one standing next in line, looked more my type. As it turned out I was right, the one he had suggested was not only very hard to get milk from, but had the reputation for general cussedness and considerable speed with her feet.
As I settled myself in a lady-like, side-saddle position on the stool and placed the pail on the platform under the udder, I drew a deep breath, said a fervent prayer and then reached gingerly for the spigots. Hopefully I could still fill a brimming pail with the best of them and I trusted that I had not lost my touch. After a few tentative squirts I picked up the tempo and soon the staccato ping, ping sound of the stream of milk resounding on the bottom of the empty tin pail, rolled back the years, and I joyfully realized that the cow and I were definitely compatible. In spite of a numbness creeping up my forearms I was making progress and creating a goodly head of lovely white froth on the top of the warm, sweet, strictly fresh milk. My memory again reverting to those earlier years, I started whistling a lively tune and soon to the strains of The Irish Washerwoman, I found myself creating a version of present-day rock and roll. As my speed accelerated I wanted to shout—”I’ve got it—I’m safe—I’ve won!”
My self-confidence had returned and I then noticed that I had quite an audience—my husband, the farmer and his wife, two of their daughters and also a row of multicolored cats, lined up in perfect formation, awaiting their evenings’ allotted dole. A proud grin was spreading over my husband’s face and I boldly suggested that if we were ever going to get the fourteen cows milked that evening, everyone had better get with it and pitch in. As the farmer turned on his heel and headed for the milk house, I heard him mutter with a shake of his head, “I’ll be damned, she can milk.” Actually he seemed surprised and slightly chagrined, but I discovered later the little episode impressed him favorably and I sensed that he began to feel that perhaps there was hope for us and that we could in time successfully join the ranks of tillers of the soil.