(part 2)
We didn’t
keep Sucky as a milk cow. After the calf
came, we kept Sucky long enough to nurse him.
We named the calf Dummito.
He looked almost pure Holstein, which alleviated any remaining doubt as
to his parentage – as if there had really been any doubt. By the time the calf was ready to be weaned,
there was no question: We could never take Sucky to the butcher. Once again, an animal we had raised to be
meat had become a pet. Even Carmon could
not distance himself from that fact as he had with Arnold. Instead, he sold her to one of our more
distant neighbors as a milk cow and sent her brother to Tucker’s. When I asked Carmon about our keeping Sucky
for that purpose ourselves, he told me that cows gave far too much milk for one
family and that he didn’t want to be bothered.
That point of view didn’t last
long. After an abortive attempt at
trying to get the children to drink goat’s milk (and to get me to actually help
milk the goat) he finally gave in and bought Dot.
Dot
was a purebred Jersey, a beautiful roan color with a white dot on her forehead,
hence the name, and a gentle nature. We
bought her from some neighbors who were leaving their mini-farm for a few years
so the husband could go to graduate school.
From the sorrowful reaction of their children, you would have thought we
were buying a member of their family. In
fact, though money changed hands, I always felt as if we had adopted Dot more
than purchased her. After a few weeks, I
could understand their feelings as I developed a real bond of affection with
Dot. I hadn’t attached myself to any of
our farm animals up to that point. Part
of that was due to my city-girl nature, but a lot was in deference to the fact
that I knew most of them wouldn’t be around very long. When the big trip to Tucker’s came, I had no
intention of being left weeping in the driveway.
~ ~ ~
Carmon
had tried to teach me how to milk the goat without any success, so I didn’t
have very high hopes the morning he decided to teach me how to milk Dot. He took the clean bucket from its peg, along
with a short milking stool, and walked to the corral. He scooped up a large can full of grain from
the barn as well. Before going into
Dot’s corral, he placed a flake of hay along with the can full of grain in
Dot’s manger. That way, he told me, he
wouldn’t have to tie her up. She would
stand still and eat while he milked. After feeding her, he placed the milking stool at her right side and the milk bucket directly under her. He had used a clean rag and warm water to wash her udder. He sort of braced himself against her side, keeping his left arm at such an angle that he could keep her tail back and her right rear leg down if necessary. Most of the time, he mentioned, she didn’t move much, but occasionally she would flinch or swish her tail if the flies were bothering her.
I hadn’t realized that a cow’s udder actually had four separate sections and that all four need to be emptied when milking. If you didn’t strip the cow almost dry at each milking, he told me, she would begin to produce less milk. Carmon milked until he’d stripped two sides, then he had me sit down and do the other two. He helped me position my hands and showed me how to squeeze and roll downward. On my first try, I heard that warm milk splash into the half-filled bucket and began to beam.
I
shouldn’t have. Even though both older
boys and Carmon knew how to milk, once I learned, everyone else suddenly became
extremely busy. Many a week passed when
I did 13 of the 14 milkings. As a
result, I became very attached to Dot.Ours was a love/hate relationship. For one thing, I learned that Carmon’s concerns over her right rear foot were well founded. More than once, she managed to get that foot into the milk pail before I could move the bucket. Many a bucket of milk was pour out in the garden as a result, which was irritating on two levels: First, I hated to waste the milk (probably a throwback from my Scottish grandfather) and second, I still had to finish milking the dogone cow!
Another
thing Dot would do that left me feeling frustrated was when she would switch
her tail at a fly and hit me instead.
Her tail was frequently matted with mud, with usually with a goat head or two in the
bargain. If you don’t know what a goat
head sticker is, then you’ve never stepped on one. Had you done so, you would surely remember
it. A goat head in the foot is painful
enough but one on the side of the face, delivered by the strong swat of a cow’s
tail is enough to make you cry. The only thing worse than her hitting me with the tail was her hitting my glasses. More than once, they were knocked off my face and into the milk bucket. This created multiple problems. In addition to spoiling the bucket of milk she could, with a swish of her tail, effectively blind me. I’ve worn glasses since I was eleven and, according to Carmon, I’m blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see well enough even to complete the milking. The cow didn’t actually disappear, but she turned into a fuzzy brown wall with no distinctive features. So I would have to fish the glasses out of the bucket, wipe them as best I could on my shirttail and continue milking. It was like milking in a London fog.
After
the milking came the rest of the work: Straining the milk through a clean
filter (they actually make such things!) into scalded gallon glass jars;
Storing the milk in the refrigerator; Washing and scalding the milking bucket;
Putting the bucket and stool back in place. 
Later, I would go back and skim the cream from the milk. Jerseys give particularly rich milk and it would not be unusual to skim more than a quart of heavy cream from every gallon. Because we had so much milk and cream, I became very creative. I learned to make cheese – cottage cheese, Longhorn cheddar, cream cheese. I also made yogurt and butter and, of course, whipped cream. It was very fulfilling to be in such a partnership with Dot.
© Gebara Education, 2001. No portion of this book may be copied by any method without the express written permission of the author
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