The Cow Milking Lesson

          by Emma L. Willey

               On the farm in South Dakota in 1929, we always had a dozen or more cows to milk.  That was long before milking machines, so we did the chore twice daily by hand.  Because I was the eleventh child in my family, my older brothers and sisters were more than willing to get one more person involved in the milking chore.

            On my ninth birthday Papa announced at the supper table, “I think you’re old enough now, Emma to help with the milking” and my brother Richard was assigned the task of teaching me.  Until then, I had appeared in the barn with my big white mug, had someone milk it full,, and I sipped the warm, sweet, foamy liquid while watching the others do the work.  Now I could learn to do it myself and I felt proud to finally be old enough to help with the milking.

             I was in for a surprise. It wasn't to be as easy as it looked. I walked to the barn with my older brothers and sisters and Richard started me with the oldest, most gentle cow in the barn.  Bessie, a black and white Holstein, waited in a stanchion midway in a long row of milk cows. 

          "She's an easy milker," said Richard with confidence.  Handing me a bucket and a one-legged stool, he said, "Go to it, Em!  It's not hard." I had watched this process so many times, I had no doubt I could do it as well as anyone. Proudly I stationed myself next to Bessie, balanced myself on the tottcry stool, and squeezed the bucket between my legs under the cow's bulging udder.  Bessic's head turned toward me as her fiery eyes seemed to say, "This is a new one, and I'm not sure I like her!" Frightened for- a moment, I knew I must get on with the job at hand..  Ignoring her, I turned to my task.  I pulled and squeezed and at last a few drops came.  I thought I was getting the hang of it, when WHAM!  I was sitting in the middle of the gutter along with the milk stool and the upset bucket, all covered with cow manure!  I was right.  Bessie really didn't like me.  And she had kicked me right out from under her.

           With injured pride, I ran to the house sobbing.  I was through with that job for good!  But Papa took me by the hand and we went right back to the barn , explaining that if I didn't act afraid, Bessie wouldn't kick me again.  From that day on, I was a regular member of the milking crew.

            My experiences of milking cows lasted until the age of eighteen when I left home for good, and I must say that I don't care if I ever see another cow unless it's on my plate in the form of a steak.

 The End