Nilda hurried into her clothes, unbraided her hair, brushed it, then braided it again and wrapped the braid around her head like a crown, tucking and pinning the ends under. She pulled her apron on over her head, tied the ties in a bow, and slipped her shoes on. “Sleep little one,” she whispered and left the room.
“Mornin’, ma’am.” Hank, Joseph’s hired hand whom Nilda had met the day before, set a pail of fresh water up in the sink. “I am to teach you to milk this morning. The cow is ready.”
“I must start the stove first. How long does it take to milk a cow?”
“Depends on how fast you learn.”
“You milk in the dark?”
“Light is coming.”
Nilda glanced over her shoulder to the door to her bedroom. Would Eloise sleep until she got back?
“Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes. The barn isn’t that far away.”
“All right.” She brushed away the ashes that she’d used to bank the coals in the stove, blew on them until they were red, and carved slivers off the pitchy wood kept on a corner of the woodbox. Smoke curled up, so she made sure the dampers were wide open to draw well. A bright flame flickered and called for more wood. Wood was far easier to start than coal, but a kerosene stove was the easiest of all. She’d cooked on one for the last few years.
After laying on smaller sticks, she added two pieces of split log and set the lids back in place. Dusting off her hands, she turned to Hank to find him nodding his approval.
“You do that right well.” He turned and led the way out to the shed-roofed building where the cow stood in a stall, her head caught between two boards.
She mooed a welcome and switched her tail.
“You got to watch out for that tail,” Hank warned her. “She gets to twitching and sure as shootin’ you’ll get slapped in the face. A wet and dirty cow tail is a real wake-up call.” He patted the cow’s rump with one hand and set a three-legged stool down beside the animal. “See that square bin over there?” He pointed to a wooden box with a cover. “That’s the grain bin. Fill the scoop inside about half full, then pour it in that box right beside her head. Eating takes her mind off the milking.”
Nilda lifted the hinged lid, seeing the scoop in the dim light that came through the cracks in the board walls and the open doors. She filled the scoop, poured some of the grain out, and walked over to dump it in the cows trough.
“She likes to be petted. Soon’s she gets to know you, since you’re the one to feed her, she’ll be your friend.” He sat on the stool and set the bucket in front of him. “Now watch what I do and then we’ll switch places.”
“Do you have to sit so close to the cow?” Nilda swallowed a lump in her throat that could only be called fear. While she’d read about cows, she’d never been this close to one. She was used to milk coming in a bottle, delivered on the doorstep every other morning and kept cool in the icebox.
“You take two teats—you can do the two closest to her front legs or the two closest to you, don’t matter. I like the two front and then the two back. Pull and squeeze, one hand at a time.” Two streams of white milk pinged into the bucket. “Loose your grip and keep the rhythm going.” He smiled over his shoulder. “Makes a song all its own, hear it?”
Nilda heard nothing but the thudding of her heart. If Mr. Peterson had told her she had to milk a cow, she most likely would not have come. She clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Uff da. I can do all things… That verse seemed to be needed a whole lot more out here than back east.
With a smooth motion, Hank stood with one hand holding the bucket. “Now it’s your turn.”
Nilda sat down on the stool, facing the cow. Near as she could see, she was in a perfect place to get kicked clear across the barn. She swallowed and chewed her upper lip. Hank handed her the bucket.
“Put it between your knees like I did, only you’ll have to scoot closer. I like to plant my forehead in her flank, lets me know if she is feeling restless.”
She followed his instructions and took hold of the two front teats. They felt warm and soft but when she squeezed and pulled, nothing came out. She looked over her shoulder to the man standing there.
“Try it again. One hand at a time. Pull and squeeze. You’ll get it.”
Please Lord, did You ever have to milk a cow? She did as he said, and this time a bit of liquid dribbled out.
“Nice and easy. You ain’t jerkin, it out of her but pretendin’ you’re a calf so she can let down her milk. Think of sucking.” Must he talk so frankly? Is this something else I need to get used to?
She tried again, this time doing the squeeze and pull in one motion. Milk came from both teats. A few more times and the milk rang into the bucket. As soon as the bottom of the pail was covered, the milk made a different sound.
The cow shifted her feet, and Nilda grabbed for the bucket.
“She’s fine, you keep milking. When nothing more comes from those front two, move to the back.”
After a false start or two and a few good spurts, Nilda’s forearms began to hurt, then cramp. She ignored the pain and kept on until not even a drop came out and the bucket was half full.
“Now you want to strip her out. Pinch your fingers together, start at the top, and go to the bottom.”
Nilda did as told and a few more squirts came out, then nothing. “Am I finished?”
“Ja, you are. You did good. Now keep your hand on the bucket as you stand up, pulling it out with you. Good. Hang up the stool on that peg on the wall and put the bucket of milk on the top of the grain bin so you can let her outside.” He waited for her to put the bucket down and join him beside the cow.
“Does she have a name?”
“Not that I know of.” He stroked the cow’s shoulder and grabbed the nail to pull up a piece of wood that locked the stanchion board in place. When the board fell to the side, the cow backed up and made her slow and easy way out the door to the pasture.
“Well, I never.”
“Now you take the milk up to the house, run it through the strainer, and you’re done.”
“What do we do with all this milk?”
“My ma always let it set so the cream could rise, skimmed off the cream for butter, had us all drink plenty of milk, including the buttermilk, and dumped the rest to the pigs and chickens.”
“Do we have pigs and chickens?”
“We have chickens. A pig will come soon, I’d bet. Joseph don’t let nothin’ go to waste.”
Together they walked back up to the house, dawn now peeking over the hills to the east and setting the trailing clouds on fire.
“Let me see about Eloise, and then if you would show me how to strain the milk?” Nilda asked tentatively.
“Ja, that is good.”
She set the bucket on the counter and hurried across the room, only to find Eloise sleeping like a kitten in the sunshine.
Back in the kitchen, she watched Hank stretch a dishtowel over a pot and tie it down with a string. “You tie this with a bow so you can untie it easy and not waste the string, see?”
“Ja. Then pour the milk through?”
“Nice and slow like, so it don’t slop over the edges. Got to have time to drain through.” Again he demonstrated, then handed her the pail. “Pour good and slow.” He chuckled as she hardly let it drip. “Faster than that. You’ll get the hang of it.”
This time some slopped over the edges. “Sorry.” Nilda felt as inept as a child. Ha, even a child could learn more quickly than me. Probably even Eloise. She ordered her hands to quit shaking. With the end of the bucket, bits of grass and sand were caught in the dish cloth. “Ishta. That is not good.”
Hank snorted and shook his head. “Many people don’t bother with straining, but my mother taught me well.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Not that you’d know all she taught me from the way things are around here. Two bachelors like us spend all our days outside, and the inside is just for cooking and sleeping. You made a good meal last night.”
“Bang on that iron rod hanging outside the door when you are ready.”
She watched as he limped out the door. He moved mighty fast for a man with one leg shorter than the other. His smile carved crevices in leathery skin, worn so from many years in the sun. While he hadn’t shown her where the chickens lived, she’d heard them clucking behind the barn. Since her mother always kept a few hens, she knew how to feed them and gather the eggs. At least he wouldn’t have to teach her that. The advertisement should have read, “Housekeeper and cook with farm experience.”
Most of the families around her folks’ home in the outskirts of Brooklyn kept a few chickens, sometimes even a goat for the milk. Big gardens fed large families and provided plenty of work to keep children out of mischief in the long, lazy summers. Until she’d gone to work as a maid when she turned fourteen.
While the ground oats cooked, she found a slab of bacon, wiped off the blue mold, and cut off enough slices for breakfast. With the leftover biscuits from the night before, the bacon and eggs and mush should be enough. Hunting through the shelves, opening every tin and jar, she realized they were missing more necessities than she’d thought. No yeast, no sourdough starter, no potatoes to make potato-water starter. So no bread would be baked today. That was fine because she could spend her time scrubbing the old part of the house from ceiling to floor, including the log walls. And if that wasn’t enough, all the bedding and clothes needed to be washed too. She mixed a cup of flour with several teaspoons of sugar and a cup of milk, beating it well to draw in as much air—and thus natural yeast—as possible. After pouring the mix into a small crock, she covered it with a cloth and set it on the counter to ferment into sourdough.
When the bacon was crisp, she set it on a plate in the warming oven where the biscuits were nearly warm enough to taste fresh. She stepped outside, then took up the smaller iron bar tied to the bracket that held the larger one and rang it vigorously. After several loud peals, she returned to the kitchen to finish setting the table while the frying pan kept warm on the cooler part of the stove. Mush first, then bacon and eggs.
When she checked on Eloise, certain that the loud clanging had awakened her, she found the child sleeping peacefully—surely another answer to prayer.
Both men filed in, hanging their hats on the pegs by the door.
“Smells good in here.” Hank dipped water from the reservoir and washed his hands in the basin. “You might set up a wash bench outside.”
Joseph took his place at the end of the table without a word—and without washing.
Uff da, she muttered inside. That man needs some lessons in cleanliness, that’s for sure. Should I tell him now, or will he get the hint when water and a towel sit on a bench beside the door?
As soon as she’d dished up the mush and set bowls before them, she pulled the skillet to the hotter surface and carefully broke eggs into the grease. “How many fried eggs would you like?”
“Two.” Hank raised that number of fingers at the same time.
Nilda waited. Mr. Peterson continued the steady motion of hand to mouth with spoons of mush disappearing at an alarming rate. “Mr. Peterson?”
He glanced up as if he’d not heard her before. “Ja?”
“How many eggs?”
“Four.”
Have I done something to displease him, or is he always this abrupt? Nilda flipped Hank’s eggs onto a plate, added bacon and biscuits and set it before him, then broke four more eggs into the sizzling fat. She most likely should have served the owner first but he hadn’t answered her first. Was he hard of hearing?
She filled his plate and set it before him along with a plate of biscuits. “I have two more eggs if either of you want them.”
When both men shook their heads, she gave the mush a good stir to keep it from sticking to the pot and folded a towel to pick up the coffeepot and fill their cups. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Mr. Peterson glanced up from shoveling in his food. “You going to eat?”
“Of course, but I thought to wait until you were finished.”
“Why?”
Because that’s what the help does.
He pointed to the other chair. “Sit and eat.”
She filled a bowl with mush and did as he said. Hank passed the plate of biscuits.
“You don’t like bacon and eggs?”
“I was saving those for Eloise.” She poured cream on her mush and added brown sugar.
“We are short of food here?” Mr. Peterson sopped the egg yolks with half a biscuit.
“No, but—”
“Need to eat to get strong.”
Nilda didn’t know what to say. In the houses where she used to work, the family ate far better than the help—the help just finished off what was left. She felt guilty biting into the crisp slice of bacon.
“Is your supply list ready?”
“No, I thought—”
“I leave right after breakfast.”
“All right.” She retrieved her paper and pencil and sat back down to add to the list while she finished eating. When Hank got up and brought the coffeepot back, she started to rise. “I’m sorry.”
“Just doin’ what we always done.”
“Ah, Mr. Peterson, could I ask a question?”
“Ja, of course.” A frown wrinkled his forehead. He paused. “What?”
What was there about the man that made gathering her thoughts and speaking clearly difficult? She’d never had such a situation before. “About the list?”
“Ja.”
“Ah, when will you go to the store again?”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure how much to put down.”
“You want garden seeds?”
“Ja, please. But how big will the garden be?”
He shrugged. “Hank will plow whatever you want.”
“I see.” She wrote down all the seeds she could think of: carrot, turnip, rutabaga, cucumber, bean, corn, pumpkin, dill, cabbage, and beets.
“We need grain for the cow and the chickens, barbed wire for the fence.” Hank looked to his boss for the nod. “Unless you want hog wire.” This suggestion earned him a shake of the head.
At the movement, some of Mr. Petersons hair flopped into his eyes, and a new thought struck Nilda. Does giving haircuts fall within my responsibilities? They both need one. How do I ask such a personal question?
She added the things he’d mentioned to the list and glanced up again. “Do they sell soap there?” Or will I have to make it? “And is there a washboard?”
He shook his head. “Used the river.”
“I see.” She wrote down washboard and a washtub. The thought of washing clothes in the river went against her sensibilities, but if he didn’t purchase these things, she’d have to learn. She added thin rope for the clothesline. “Do you have a boiler?” Clothespins, blueing?
“No, write it down.”
She studied the list. What gardening tools did he have? She’d not seen jars for canning, but she didn’t need those now.
“Ma?” The plaintive cry came from her bedroom.
“Coming.” She stood, paused to check their cups to see if they needed more coffee, and continued on to the bedroom where Eloise sat in the middle of the bed, rubbing her eyes.
“Hungry.”
“I am sure you are, but Ma has to finish with Mr. Peterson. Can you put your shift on and wait for me?”
Eloise nodded. “Then eat?”
“Put your shoes on too, so you don’t get a sliver in your foot.” She’d have to do something to smooth out the floorboards, but not right now. The list had to be finished, or she would go without. Hurrying back to the table, she added salt and pepper, baking soda, and raisins. “Do they carry yeast?”
“Ja, we are not at the end of the world, you know.” Joseph teased.
“Pardon me. I’m used to—”
>
“Write down coffee.”
She did so and added tea to her list. That might be a luxury but she was used to a cup of tea in the afternoon, even if she didn’t take time to sit and drink, but sipped it on the run. All the other houses where she’d worked had full pantry shelves and bins for flour and sugar set into the cupboards, along with canisters of various sizes. Here the beans were falling out of a hole in the gunnysack; the flour and the corn meal probably had weevils that she’d sifted out.
Gathering up her courage, she cleared her throat and said, “I would appreciate some tins and crocks to store the flour and other dry goods.” At Josephs frown, she added apologetically, “If you can afford those things, that is.”
Mr. Peterson pushed back his chair. “You know how to churn butter?”
“Ja.”
“Good, I get a churn. Maybe take two wagons.”
“Oh, I’m sure you don’t need…” She glanced up at him, expecting another frown, but was that a twinkle she caught in his eyes? Surely not, just a trick of the light. “I’m sorry to have such a long list, but you really are short on the necessities.”
“Ja. And short on time. I will be back for supper.” He picked up the tablet and ripped off the two sheets she’d filled with her list. He folded the pages and tucked them into the pocket on his shirt, a pocket that could surely use a needle and thread. Good thing she’d brought those things herself. What needed washing also cried out for mending.
Uff da, how will I ever get all this done? And she still had no idea when he’d be going to town again.
She heard the river calling her name.
Glancing at her watch—the one she’d decided not to wear for the duration of the vacation—Ragni figured she should go to Paul’s and get Erika fairly soon. No clock and the inability to tell time by the sun had bugged her. Perhaps by tomorrow, she’d take the watch off again. She flexed her fingers and rotated her wrist in circles. Scrubbing rust off cast iron wore on one’s arm muscles. Now if she’d been weightlifting like she’d promised herself, her arms would have been toned and far stronger. They’d ached at the spa too. Moving a mouse around at the office didn’t build the same muscles that killing rust did.
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 14