Driving north on Highway 57 in August 2013, just a few miles from Kari and Paul’s home in Wisconsin, I experienced an idyllic sight. Off to the right, a stand of maples stood, and between the trees and the fence line, a herd of Holstein dairy cows paraded toward the farm, half mile distant.
I drove a bit further when the thought hit me. How many years had it been since I’ve witnessed the scene, “evening chores?” I concluded—probably over sixty years!
Our family loved to visit the Suneson farm. Carl, Andrew, Esther and Anna — four siblings who never married and lived on the same homestead built by their parents. In the 1940’s, the four were in their fifties or sixties. Carl and Andrew farmed (Andrew had been a rural schoolteacher), Anna worked out of the home occasionally (she helped my mom on laundry and ironing days), and Esther kept the home fires burning.
On a number of Sunday afternoons, after the Christoffersen babies woke from their naps, Dad would pile us into his ’39 Buick for the anticipated visit. My twelve-year-old brother John, two years older than me, begged Dad to let him drive the four miles west on the gravel road. Mom would get nervous, but John did fine. Afternoon coffee, Kool-Aid, cake and/or cookies were served by Anna and Esther, after which Andrew and Carl would head out to the barn for chores. John and Paul, my younger brother, and I would tag along.
The small herd of Holsteins, probably no more than fourteen or sixteen, would be out in the pasture. Carl would bellow, “Come boss,” and send Shep, their farm dog out to hurry them in. When the cows entered the open barn door, we made certain we were standing in a safe place. Every cow had a name — Bessie, Honey, Inga, Hulda, Betty — and each marched into their own stall. The men would lock each stanchion and the milking process began.
The cows mooed loudly, no doubt wanting to be milked to relieve the discomfort of a full udder. Carl and Andrew, perched on three-legged stools, began to milk, while the barn cats lined up, hoping for a squirt of milk to come their way. When the “squirt” happened, some of the milk would hit their mouth, and the rest would spatter onto their whiskers and faces, causing them to do all kinds of gymnastics to lap up the rest. And then they’d come back for more. We thought the scene very amusing.
Besides watching the cats, the other excitement included making sure we were at a distance from cows pooping or peeing or swishing their long tails to keep flies away. The alleyway, with gutters on each side for manure, seemed much too narrow when trying to find a safe place to stand.
After milking each cow, the men poured the milk into large cans to be stored in the milk house for pick up the following day. Next, the brothers released the cows from their stanchions. One by one, they marched out through the open door to pasture again until morning, when the milking ritual would be repeated.
Savoring our experience, the boys and I walked back to the house to say our thank you’s and goodbyes and drive back to Ogema, again with John in the driver’s seat.
An aside – Between the house and the barn stood the apple orchard. While walking to the barn, Carl, whose eyes always seemed to twinkle, would sing for me the popular World War II song, “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me.” I loved the attention, and I know I blushed.
