Doing the happy my cow is finally fresh dance.

Finally after many months of gestation little Buford made his way into the world. Betty is the proud mama of a little bull calf. And if you know anything about cows and calves you know that with the birth of a calf, down comes the milk. Yeah!!!
As you can see a whole gallon of fresh raw milk, with a nice thick layer of cream just sitting on the top saying, " Make me into butter, or pour me into your coffee, or better yet how about homemade ice cream." Oh my heart sores at the thought of the first freezer of homemade ice cream. Ahhhhh I can feel the love.
The thought of not having to buy 4 dollar a gallon milk sure gives me a warm fuzzy feeling as well. Plus I think the stuff is putrid. I prefer mine fresh from an animal I know personally.

I have a funny milk cow story. Actually I have several funny milk cow stories, but I should start with the first one. The story of a new bride and her beloved and a mean milk cow.

When I first married my grandmother gave me some wise advice. You know in the book of Titus the older women are admonished to teach the younger women. And admonish me she did. We were just sitting rocking on night, she had two rocking chairs in her living room right side by side, and rocking was a favorite pass time. Well we were sitting there just rocking, and all of a sudden she stops, looks me straight in the eye and says, " Never learn to milk a cow." Since we had been talking about my up and coming wedding I thought she was going to give me some womanly marriage kind of advice, but no all she said was, "don't learn how to milk a cow."

Now I am farm raised. We had cows, we had horses, but we never had milk cows. My daddy hated milk cows, and said he would never have one on the place. This strong aversion to milk cows was deeply rooted. Growing up he had many many milk cows that he and my grandmother milked by hand twice a day, 7 days a week until it was time to dry them up. He hated milk cows.

My grandmother was a ranchers daughter. In the early 1900's when men were still men and women were still women, it was unheard of for the ranchers daughter to milk the cow. It was considered rude if a young cowboy was on the place and the daughter did the milking. It was a given that if she was seen going toward the barn with pail in hand, said pail would be taken from the delicate hand, and the milking would be done by the young buckaroo. It was just good manners, and I am sure, written in the "code of the west," somewhere.

But alas my grandmother did not marry a rancher...she married a farmer...a hard headed German farmer at that. And with that marriage she left the days of being honored and cherished and considered to delicate to do such a thing as milk a cow. Now I have to stop and make a point. My grandmother was not delicate. She was a true southern lady, a strong Texas women. She could sit a horse and move cattle with the best of them. But it was always done in a lady-like manner. And never in a way to show disrespect to the men.

Anyway she found herself on the farm, and a farm with milk cows. Milk cows that needed to be milked, and no nice cowboy to do it. Thus the words, "don't learn how to milk a cow," were heart felt and came from the school of hard knocks, or hard kicks to be exact. Sooner than later, I was to remember these wise words...and understand.

DH and I were married and just like a little hen I was making my nest. Life was good. We lived on a beautiful place. We spent a lot of time together. I rode with him several times a week. Bounced around in the feed truck the rest of the time. We just hung out. The only fly in the ointment was...in this paradise there were 3 milk cows. They belonged to the boss, but when you are the low man on the pole, and he is the boss the one writing the paychecks you have to do what he says. And he said to do the cows twice a day, rain or shine, seven days a week. Now I was feeling pretty badly about this. I was thinking, instead of sitting here watching DH do all the milking I should be helping him. We could get done twice as fast. Only one problem. I didn't know how to milk. Yes it was shameful, here I was a bonified ranch wife, a strong woman of the west and I couldn't milk. I remember the very day, the very hour, the very minute I had to confess this gross sin to my DH. I felt if he had cast me out he would have been within his rights. I felt....useless, worthless, incomplete! Well as I made my confession he just sat and listened. Finally I was spent, I was drained, I was free form the horrible guilt I had been carrying. And then I waited, what would he say? Pack you bags Gertie and get out? It's OK darling I love you anyway, even if you aren't a whole woman? No, he just looked at me, and said,"Well get the bucket and come on." My prince! My hero!

With bucket in hand we approached the milk pen. There she stood, a pretty little Jersey cow named Leche, that means milk in Spanish, just so you know. DH herded pretty little Leche in the stall, fed her, and gave her a pat. Then he instructed me on what to do. # 1 get the stool, # 2 place stool down by cow. # 3 sit on stool. # 4 give cow another little pat, plus a rub. #4 reach for the equipment. #5 got a little tricky, you can't just squeeze, that is a no no. You have to squeeze from the top down. # 6 practice a bit then add the second hand. # 7 find you rhythm squeeze one two three, squeeze one two three. I never made it past # 6. Sweet like Leche came unglued. She cow kicked me before I ever knew what what hit me. I was sitting in the dirt. DH was appalled. He just couldn't believe that that sweet little lady would do that. I must of pinched her. Then he offered to finish. Me, being the strong ranch woman that I was trying to be, muttered no, I will finish while trying to hide the tears in my eye's.

Sitting down I proceeded to milk again. Being very very careful not to pinch the old hussy, I mean the sweet little thing. About 3 squirts into the pail and wham she got me again. The first time was just a love pat. This time she knocked me off the stool, across the dirt, and into the wall of the stall. Wham! I just sat there stunned covered in dirt and other unsavory things that would happen to be on the floor of such a place. Dh ran over and helped me up, this time I bawled, I squalled and limped out the gate, vowing to never never milk a cow again. The words of my grandmother echoing in my poor bruised brain.

DH kindly helped me to sit down on an over turned bucket. He would just be a minute, he would finish her then he would help me home. As I sat there feeling sorry for myself and sniveling, he went into the liar of the demon cow. Soon I could hear the swish swish of milk hitting the side of the bucket. Well that's about right. The wanton hussy, all she wanted was my man! Then I heard a horrible noise! It was the sound of....I knew not what! I limped over to see what the commotion was. DH was getting up off the ground, the bucket was overturned, milk was running everywhere. And dear Leche, well she was having a temper fit. Every time he would start to milk she would cow kick him. Now DH is very very stubborn and he was not going to be bested by a milk cow. He was determined to get the job done. So it went like this, squeeze, kick, squeeze kick. Until she kicked him in the knee. Even I could see the red haze that filled his field of vision. The fight was on. Dh had lost control. He picked up the milking stool and hit her on the head. She tried to whirl and kick him again. Again down came the stool. It was violent. Take that you witch, here take that you stupid cowboy!

Finally they both wore the other out. They both stood there glaring at each other, heaving sweating, Ok I know that cows sweat through their noses, her nose was glistening. Finally Dh reached out gave her a pat, found the dented milk bucket, knelt down and went to milking. Leche just stood there, never moved a muscle. I am pretty sure he milked pure buttermilk that night, but milk he did.

Both of us limped to the house, compared bruises, took a bath and went to bed.

That cow never did offer to kick him again, and I never did offer to help with the milking again. I figured it would be best to leave well enough alone.

Now I did learn to milk, not on that cow. But we had a sweet little Guernsey that didn't mind a beginner. And I had milk goats at one point in time. But for the most part DH is the main milker in our household. Cowboy Chivalry is not dead......thank the good Lord!

God Bless and Happy Trails,
Ranch Wife