Moo

UDDERLY SILLY

 

Our dairy farm takes a lot out of us. The whole family, Dad, Mom, my three brothers, Tim, Howie and Mike, and I, Sally, the youngest, break our backs milking, tending to our meal tickets. Each cow is an individual, with its own likes and habits. We have 22 now and that's more than enough to get to know. Each has a name and most of the time responds  to it.  Of course, we have to push, pull, cussed at them, before they'll move an inch. And cows are smarter than anyone would believe unless he took the time and effort, and stupidity, to hang around them.

 

Bess is one of the ficklest. Depending on her mood, she will or will not let me milk her. I have to clang the triangle to get Tim's attention, make him come say hello to Bess. She likes him and swishes her tail, always knocking his ratty visored cap off his head. Actually, I think she hates his cap more than she likes Tim.

 

If we had to depend on just our herd, we'd die, die with our bellies full of choice steaks. However, Great Grandma Caroline had the foresight, before she married, Great Grandpa Moses, to plant with her own two hands, dozens of sapling Winesap  apples along the border with the Simpson's, who eventually, Ma told us, used to steal them and made wonderful applesauce for their family, then had the guts to give Great Grandma a jar full now and then and  pretend she bought it from the country store.

 

Sure of her fate, she still could not stand cleaning away the cow dung, held her nose like a child when she would have to go in the barn. The stench of the gas those animals expelled out in the otherwise lovely spring air, could have taken out the entire German army at Dunkirk. Too often we heard her wish we had elephants instead of cows.

 

Before I was born, my mom planted corn, tended to it, sprayed, took off the deformed husks and the field prospered, Mom did too. Grandma did more than her part in our success and is now living on her own time table, just about ready to leave this earth when she reaches  ninety. That date means  something to her but to us all it is a sad,  fearful thing to consider. We have had our cows, our new calves,  hooked up for mechanical milking for a few years, have two big tractors to till the soil for planting the spring crop of corn.

 

The shindig begins Nov. 30. Grandma attends wearing overalls under a black heavy sweater she knitted years ago and clomping shoes with laces. I take the lead and put a small harness on her and let her lead us all to the cow shed. Water paint decorates every cow, bull, calf, in bright shades, some polka dots, zig zag lightning strokes. Grandma puts an old clothespin on her nose and  pats each animal, hugs the smallest. We applaud.

 

We laugh. Grandma wants to take a short walk by herself, reminisce.
A half hour is enough re-thinking, we all agree, and I, Sally, am sent to bring Grandma back.

 

I find her leaning against a Winesap apple tree that has borne its fruit. Saliva is running down her chin. Her eyes are open, an almost smile is on her wrinkled face ----but--- she does not see me.