Prompt:  The Barn

On our farm across the orchard was the milk barn. Ole John would round up his full-uddered cows in predawn light, shooing them into their stalls. They were black and white mamas and milked twice a day. On early morning milkings I could hear John's voice carrying across the barnyard, on through the mist of the apple orchard and up to my bedroom window. He sang songs-or so he thought he was singing. To me, it was funny sounds in between cussing at his cows. Farmers cuss a lot: "goddam Bessie you ole sumbitch, git in thar!"

John used milking machines. Sometimes, during the late afternoon milkings, I was present in the barn, but I kept my distance so John wouldn't yell at me. The milk barn was clean and whitewashed and had a sour smell. I was entranced with the machines with four hefty nozzles that attached to the four elongated nipples that were attached to the bursting pink udders. There were tails swishing away flies…John's singing or hollering, blending into moos and stomping hooves… the chugging, gurgling sounds of the milk machines. The warm milk was poured from the machines into large stainless steel containers with big round lids and a handle on each side. Ole John lugged the jugs, setting them to be picked up and taken away to the dairy to be pasteurized. I hated warm fresh cow's milk-or even cold. But I did love the milk that came out of the Dean's milk carton Mom bought at the local market in town.