In my lonely times, I find
myself thinking about milking time at the farm where I grew up. It’s
comforting, which must seem strange to anyone who has never helped with
milking--and probably to quite a few people who have. But it works for
me.
I imagine myself sitting on the milking stool, the smell of warm cow and
silage heavy around my face. I can feel the itch of the dirty t-shirt
under layers of clothes. The smooth coat of a calm, maternal animal is
against my cheek, and the pulsing of the milk machine is a heart pressed
against the palm of the hand I have resting on it. That’s the whole
image. Just me, the smell of barn, warmth, and the soothing ka-thunk,
ka-thunk of the milking machines. I’m oddly cozy just thinking of it.
No matter the season, it’s always winter when I think of the barn. The
doors are shut, the glass-block windows misted with cow breath, and the
steam wafting from fresh manure. Outside, the wind blows, working its
way through cracks around the milkhouse doors, blowing through the barn
and bringing with it the scent of Dad’s instant coffee, left on the
bulk tank. There was almost never conversation. Just me and my father,
working together in the rhythm of a long-established routine.
For a couple of hours, twice a day, I didn’t need to think about what
I was doing, who I liked, who I loved, how I was doing in school, or
what to say. Dad was silent, except for occasionally clearing his
throat. In this silent haven from the blustering outside, the cows
warmed me with their huge bodies and steamy breath. Crouched beside one,
washing an udder with warm water and iodine, I could be part of the
herd. Covered with their smell, my clothes peppered with black and white
hairs, I was an oddly small and busy member of the family. As I walked
among them to do my chores, I was licked and affectionately head-butted
by fifty mothers looking for a calf to fuss over. I was warm, safe, and
cosseted.
And
I remember: I am content.
