Of Tractors and Milk Cows

 

Kulning

Of Tractors and Milk Cows

Coming Home

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

          The West I experienced as a boy, and still experience today, it’s not that (Frederic Remington) West.

                                                                                    ~ Duke Beardsley

            An old friend came home last week.

            It was a twin of the other friend, the three speed. Both were part of my earliest childhood, the world that matters most. Everything revolved around Bell Canyon and where it ran under the highway before it emptied into the river down the lane.

            With no exaggeration, I considered myself quite a partner with those twins by the time years six or seven rolled around. I knew where the keys were, the combination to the lock on the fuel tank, and how to check the oil before either were started. Nana had to know what I was doing, and I can just imagine her watching the process from the corner of a window somewhere.

            There was a trick to starting each of them.

            First, the gas had to be turned on. One, the one that came home, had to be choked just a little, while the other, the three speed, normally jumped to life after the throttle was set on the column.

            There was about two hundred yards of highway that had to be traversed after crossi00ng the cattleguard leaving the house before turning right just at the flume to go through the gate just to the north of the Jim Bell field. The road then followed the levee on the north side of the canyon going east toward the Indian mounds. It was all part of Grandpa Rice’s legacy that had started when he arrived from Texas in 1888.

            More often than not the destination was the river bottom. The intent was simply the freedom that prevailed. Often there was a fishing pole hanging onto one of the twins with a can of worms freshly dug from the kitchen drain set in the corner of the toolbox. At other times it was just the drive and the unknown or unexpected that was the reason.

            To get to the river the drive had to turn north off the road and continue up through the Indian ruins field to reach the lane, the once common access to the river itself.

            From there it was across the old cattle guard into the bosque of the bottom. The smells of the river in the backdrop remain clearly in memory as unique to anything I have experienced … heaven sent it was.

            Kulning

            In our vernacular it was hooeying. In the Swedish rural countryside, the term was kulning. In both cases, it was the call to the cows at milking time.

            In the secular world, the process of replacing the milk carton in the refrigerator is to add it as an entry on the grocery list. In the days of rural dominance where a six-year-old kid could be trusted to drive a tractor, it meant twice a day milking that took precedence over everything.

            On my paternal side in those days, my grandfather was the milker. On my maternal side (and the midst of the tractor world hereinabove), my uncle held sway. The process always started by calling the cows. There was no consistent call from farm to farm or ranch to ranch. Rather, it was familiarity and repetition of the milker that prompted the cows to come. In most if not all cases, they were always fed a grain or concentrate ration along with hay as they were milked. That, along with relief of udder pressure by milk production of the day, was a reward for their offering.

            In the mix of nostalgia and fascination, an unaware listener might describe the call as haunting or primeval. It was done at either the break of day or the last thing in the evening. It was during the calmest time of the day when the world was either awakening or starting to retreat.

            I am sure there is no recording of calling the cows from the Gila River country, but there should be. There are recordings from Sweden largely because of the work of Jonna Jinton who has made it a point of elevating the memories of long ago when milk maidens (normally young women and girls attended the cows) called their cows from their daily grazing to be milked.

            Grandpa Wilmeth called ol’ Easter with his high-pitched yip, the same he would use horseback working cows. Uncle Bill would call with more similarity to the Jinton recordings as a long wailing reminder. He talked recently about having to walk to find them if they were down in the Indian mounds or against the river. There, he would locate Bessie and Bossie and hitch a ride back to the barn on one of them.

            At the barn, the routine was always the same.

            In my mind, I can hear the swishing of the milk first in the empty bucket and then on the milk as the bucket was filled. The sweet smell of cow and fresh milk is there as well. The term kick the bucket, too, comes to mind when verbal reprimand was issued when a full bucket was threatened by accident or intent.

            At the end, the stool was replaced, the cow(s) were left to finish the hay, and a walk to the house ensued. I can remember, too, when the bucket was swung in a full arch over his 6’4” frame as he reminded me he wouldn’t spill a drop.

            Coming Home

            So, it was with this backdrop the call about one of those twin tractors came.

            Would you want this tractor (the four speed 8N) was the query? When it was unloaded days later, it was like greeting the old friend it remains. When it was started the gas was turned on, just a hint of choke was applied, and it caught the first crank.

            Welcome home, old friend … welcome home.

 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico.