Farm-Fresh Milk

By Elton Camp (This is a continuation of the series on rural life in the South during the early part of the 20th Century. Other episodes are on this site.) Milas family, like his neighbors, kept a cow. Bertha, go do th milking, he said. A sharp imperative was all he used. Bertha selected two metal pails. The smaller she half-filled with spring water. The larger would hold the milk. She put on her white bonnet and headed toward the barn. It was easy to entice the cow into the milking stall with a galvanized bucket of brown feed. The molasses in it gave a sweet smell. As Petunia munched the feed, Bertha placed a sturdy, wooden box at her side as a milking stool. Before she commenced, she splashed clear water on the udder and rubbed it vigorously with her hands. Cleanliness was important. With the milk bucket in place, she used both hands to squeeze the teats. After a few seconds of delay, forceful streams of milk shot down. The rhythmic squirts were initially amplified as they struck the bottom and echoed in the empty pail. As the bucket filled, the sounds became muffled. Quit it, Bertha stormed as the cow flicked her tail to deter biting flies. The swing had narrowly missed her head. She planted a sharp slap on the bovines flank. Startled, the cow moved forward. Only Berthas quick grab of the bucket prevented its foot from going inside. Yud have got me into hit, ole lady if youd ruint th milk. Yu kin have yore calf now, Bertha said when the daily task was complete. Shed made certain to leave enough milk in the udder to placate the hungry calf. Itd been confined in the barn all day to ensure that it didnt steal its mothers milk. Bertha led the tan cow to the pasture and returned to release the similarly marked calf. It dashed to its mother and began to feed hungrily. White foam appeared around its mouth. The calf rapidly switched its tail from side to side, but stopped to butt the udder impatiently when the milk flow momentarily slowed. Too hard a butt caused the cow to kick her hind foot angrily at her offspring. When the milk was gone, the cow and calf strolled into the pasture. They paused to graze the best patches of grass. Both shook portions of their skins to scare away pesky flies, but it did little good. The insects settled back into place within seconds. In a show

of maternal care, the cow occasionally licked the calf. The roughness of her tongue created damp, ruffled places in its coat. When Bertha returned to the house, she placed a white cloth over an enamel bucket, pushed it slightly inward at the center, and slowly poured the milk onto it. The liquid filtered through the cloth, leaving a few specks of some unidentified black material. Maw, Im takin th milk t th sprang so hit wont go blinked. That description of milk went back to the early 1600s, but was no longer used outside of the southern Appalachian Mountains. Bertha knew no other word for ruined milk. She poured the milk into a large glass jar, closed it with a screw-on metal lid and cradled the container next to her body. The base of the jar rested on her bent left arm. Her destination was a small spring that bubbled from underneath sandstone boulders about fifty feet from the house. She placed the jar on a level spot on a rock. From a two-foot-deep water reservoir, she withdrew a similar container with the remainder of the previous days milk. Not to be wasted, she took it into the house to add to the stock being accumulated to have enough to justify the time and trouble of making butter. Only the cream that rose to the top was used for that purpose. The current days milk went into the spring. The waters coolness would keep it tasting fresh for a day.