Pressed Between the Pages
The Stories in a Milk Stool
By DeAnne (Wolkow) Kruempel, Columnist
It hasn’t changed. Oh, the wood has darkened and the edges are worn and tattered, but it looks the same as it did 67 years ago. Tan streaks alternate between dark, nearly black areas on the top. The grain, especially on the foot, is rough, though softened with many years of barn dust.
I run my fingers over the seat. There are 11 rusted nail heads forming a haphazard circle in the center, still doing their job of holding the boards together. As I gaze at the T-shaped milking stool before me, memories flow, pressed between the pages of my mind. My memories blend with imaginings of the life of this cherished relic.
A story is born:
The man watched his 9-year-old son adeptly cut the boards. The old hand saw loomed huge in his young hands. They had measured a piece of 2x4 and one of 4x4.
“Twelve inches plus an extra inch for good measure.”
The boy picked out the longest nails from the old pail in the shop and nailed the boards together. The father’s eyes twinkled as he noted the quantity of nails used. No milk stool had ever been sturdier.
“Do you think you are big enough to start milking?” Donald gave a quick nod and his chest puffed with pride. Early the next morning, Donald stood next to his mother in the barn. She wondered for a moment how her little boy had grown so quickly. She thought of the new baby boy up at the house in the capable hands of his three older sisters. Her thoughts returned to the task at hand: “Put five ears of corn into the manger.”
The boy quickly obeyed. The woman opened the side door of the barn and the waiting cow ambled in. She pushed her head into the stanchion, knowing corn awaited.
Mom knew about milking. She had grown up with dairy cows and sometimes she and her sisters had milked 30 cows. She taught the boy how to attach kickers to secure the cow’s hind legs. Then she balanced on the wonderful milk stool, placed her bucket under the cow’s udder and leaned into the cow.
“You press your head between her hip bone and stomach.”
Mom began to milk, explaining how her fingers closed from top to bottom to squeeze out the milk. “You try.” Donald took his turn sitting on the milk stool. Soon he had milk squirting into the bucket.
His mom taught him how important it was to get all the milk out so the cow would keep producing. Once the bucket of milk was safely stowed, the boy unlatched the boards that opened the stanchions. The cow backed out and happily headed back to the pasture.
Years passed. Different cows came and went, but Don and Mom continued with the chore. As is often the case, younger sisters feel the need to spy on their brothers. One evening Dorothy slipped into the barn to watch Donald milk the cow. Three cats stood to the side.
Every couple minutes, one would be rewarded with a spritz of milk. Dorothy was so engrossed with watching the cats that she didn’t see Donald tilt on the stool. All at once, a jet of milk splashed into the girl’s face! A few years later, Delmer got the milk bath, too.
The sturdy milk stool served the family even more years. One night when Donald was about to graduate high school, the youngest, most spoiled little sister quietly sneaked into the barn. Surely, she wouldn’t get squirted this time. A few minutes passed. Cats got air drinks. All at once, a spurt of milk came flying.
It got me right between the eyes! Some things never change.
The author’s column appears in a growing number of Midwest newspapers. Kruempel has compiled and published her column stories for the last five years. She has also published a historical fiction series,“Promises to Keep.”
Her 10 books are available on Amazon. Signed copies may be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center. Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
