The Separator

February 13, 1969 – South Arcola, Saskatchewan

It has been more than fifty years since I milked a cow.  Some things you just don’t forget.

• The handle on the milk pail clangs as I take it down from the drying shelf.
• Out the door at 7:15 on a February morning.
• The morning cold is held at bay by thick barn clothes but awakens my face.

• Early light creeps up the chicken house wall as I pass by, the hens are still fast asleep.
• Frost on the barn door latch.
• A riot of smells and textures inside, humidity, manure, and semi-darkness.
• “Good morning, Kitty”.
• I toss two flakes of hay from a bale into the manger.
• Open the reluctant sliding door to the back of the barn.
• Guernsey trundles to her stall and puts her face in the hay without so much as a “Thank You”.
• I place a chain around her neck, so she doesn’t wander mid-milking.
• There is a plastic bucket to sit on (no three-legged stool designed not to wobble for this dairy).
• Guernsey has an over-full bag this morning, evening milking was early.
• A quick dusting of teats to remove any flakey debris and I get to work.
• One knee up against the cow’s leg – if she primes for a kick, I will get an early warning.
• It is winter, no need to wedge the tail between my knee and her leg, she won’t be swatting flies today.
• I place the milk pail with the strainer side to the rear and start on the two front teats.
• They don’t need a lot of priming, just a couple of pulls and the milk flows.
• “Pulls” is a bad word.  Neither Guernsey nor I, like it. 
• A rhythmic massage is the best way to coax milk – and not get kicked.
• The cat has been patient until now.  She is standing on her hind legs, with her forepaws on my thigh.
• “I am not feeding you here, we will get soaked”. I push Kitty back into the alley where she belongs.

• There is enough milk on her face to keep Kitty occupied cleaning herself while I finish milking.
• The front of the bag is deflated, time for the rear.
• Guernsey has finished her breakfast flakes; she looks back over her shoulder at me.
• “Okay, two more”.  If she’s happy, I’m happy.
• I sit back down on the plastic pail and turn the milk pail around.
• To reach the back teats, I put the top of my head in that hollow spot where the leg meets the cow.
• Tucked into a milk cow’s rear hip is a comfortable place to be, in winter.
• The back valves are fatter and shorter than the front.  It is more difficult to aim for the pail.
• The self-cleaned cat is back for more, but I can’t squirt from this angle.
• A stream of warm milk runs down my hand and drips off my elbow. 
• The milk pail is nearly full, but Guernsey’s reservoir isn’t quite empty yet.
• My fingers are tired.
• Why am I doing this?  It is 1969 for crying out loud!  Other people buy milk from the store.
• They do, but it isn’t the same.  Guernsey’s milk produces cream that makes the best fudge ever.
• The milking is done, so is Guernsey.  She twitches her hip, a sign that her patience has worn thin.
• I lift the pail with aching forearms, and dormant knees.
• I set the precious cargo where a retreating cow and a greedy cat can’t reach it.
• Guernsey gets a pat on the rump, and Kitty gets a dribble in her dirty bowl.
• Back out in the cold.

• Fifty years pass as I carry milk from the barn to…

… The Separator.

Article published in Winter 2022 edition of Folklore – Saskatchewan’s Yesterdays Personified