Lizzie's Carefree Years

by Linda Byler

  “Yes, I would. You know I would. I’d enjoy that. I’d even churn the butter!”

  Mandy said something that sounded a lot like “Humph!” but Lizzie wasn’t quite sure.

  The wind almost tore the screen door out of their hands as they reached the kitchen door. Panting, they set the jug on the table before they took off their scarves and coats, hanging them carefully on the proper hooks, remembering it was Saturday morning and Mam and Emma had just finished cleaning.

  “Mam, you’re going to have to ask Dat to buy a cow,” Lizzie said, brushing back her windblown hair.

  Mam looked up from scouring the sink. She frowned as she took notice of Lizzie’s wildly blown hair. “Lizzie, your hair! How many times did I tell you to comb it in tighter? You look like a genuine . . . I don’t know what,” she trailed off wearily.

  “It was windy. Mam, you have to ask Dat if we can get a cow,” Lizzie repeated, undoing hairpins as she fixed her hair.

  Mam wrung out her dishcloth, hanging it on the wooden rack beside the sink. She smoothed her wet hands across her apron, then she sat down on a kitchen chair.

  “Do you use conditioner on your hair, Lizzie?” she asked, trying to be patient and kind. Lizzie knew that tone of voice very well.

  “No, it smells bad.”

  “Now, Lizzie, it doesn’t. If your hair doesn’t start staying in better, you’re going to have to use hairspray or something.”

  “Oh, no, Mam.” Lizzie shook her head from side to side. “Lavina and Esther told Emma hairspray causes your forehead to break out in big pimples. Do you want me to walk around with flat hair and big, ugly, red pimples, or woolly hair?”

  Mam narrowed her eyes, pulling her mouth down in a strict expression, but before she accomplished it, her mouth and nose twitched in a funny way. She threw up both hands and burst out laughing helplessly. She laughed and laughed, until she took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes under her glasses, and said, “Lizzie!” in the most endearing way.

  Lizzie was delighted. She laughed with Mam, although she wasn’t sure what was so funny. Emma and Mandy laughed just to hear Mam.

  “Now, why do you want a cow?” Mam asked, still smiling. She lifted one of the twins from her walker onto her lap.

  “Samuel Rennos’ farm is so cozy. Did you know they use field corn and shell it and roast it, and have their own cornmeal for fried mush? Anyway, they churn butter, too, and it’s all so much like pioneers. Like Pa and Ma, Laura, Mary, and them.”

  “You think a cow would make our barn and house cozy?” Mam asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Who would milk her?”

  “Me. Did you ever milk a cow, Mam?”

  “Oh, my, yes. I used to be a ‘maud’ here in Jefferson County as a young girl, and I certainly did. I milked five or six cows by hand every morning and evening. I know exactly how to milk a cow.”

  “Does Dat?”

  “Oh, I’m sure Dat can milk.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “A cow would be nice. We could get a little Jersey. They give rich milk and not as much as those big Holsteins,” Mam mused.

  “I’ll churn butter,” Emma said. “I always wanted to live in an old farmhouse, so churning butter goes right along with that, too. And quilts—I have to learn to make quilts.”

  Dat was quite unprepared for his wife and all the girls to meet him at the door, begging him to buy a cow, of all things! He always thought he wouldn’t be able to understand women—now he was sure he wouldn’t.

  chapter 20

  The Cow

  And so Dat bought a cow. As cows go, she was a very nice one. A small brown Jersey, with huge, dark eyes framed with heavy lashes, a dished face, and a wet black nose that was so much cuter than those Holsteins, in Lizzie’s opinion. Her bones were small—even her legs and feet were delicate for a cow.

  Dat gave her the most comfortable stall, where Dolly had been, so he didn’t need to make a new feed box. There was one there, low enough for the cow to reach easily. She looked quite content, standing amidst all the loose, clean straw, swishing her tail and chewing her cud. That was, after she was tired of walking around her new stall and mooing. Dat said she was probably mooing for her calf, because she had just been “fresh.”

  “What in the world does that mean? If she was fresh, does that mean she’s stale now or what?” asked Lizzie.

  “No, no. That is just a term for saying she just had a calf. Now she’ll have plenty of milk for a while.”

  “Oh.”

  Lizzie wasn’t too sure about this cow, although she said nothing. For one thing, she didn’t like the smell of her. She smelled a bit sour or something. She also had this annoying habit of sticking her tongue in her nostrils, which was just disgusting. Horses and ponies would never do that. She was positive once she learned to milk her, she would like her a lot better, because, in a sense, she was disappointed. Lizzie wished the cow wouldn’t smell sour and act so dumb.

  When it was almost suppertime, Dat told the girls to come along if they wanted to learn how to milk. They also needed to think of a name. Most cows were named Bess or Mollie or Spot, he said, but they already had a horse named Bess.

  “Spot is a dog’s name,” Mandy said.

  “Not always.”

  “It is in the lower grade reading book.”

  “I guess you’re right. Okay, no Spot or Bess. What’s wrong with Mollie?”

  “‘Mollie is a girl’s name,” Emma said.

  Nothing Dat suggested suited the girls at all. Somehow, it seemed hard to name a cow, and the poor cow never did have a name. She was always “Cow,” or in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Coo,” or “De Coo.”

  That first evening they were fully planning on naming her, but the more the girls looked at her, the less they felt like naming her. She was just such an ordinary cow; it seemed too grand to give her a name.

  Dat pulled up a small stool on the right side of the cow and pushed it up against her so far that Lizzie was afraid he would crawl under her.

  “Dat, she’s going to kick at you!” Lizzie warned.

  “Nah,” Dat said, self-confidently.

  WHAM! The cow’s hoof flew through the air so quickly, it was a blur, but the sound of her hoof hitting the stainless steel bucket assured them all that she meant business. No one was going to milk her!

  Dat grabbed the stool, stood back, lifted his hat, and scratched his head. “Boy! She must be used to a milker. Whoa, girl.” Dat smoothed his hand across her back and down her sides, talking to her in soothing tones. He stayed well back from that right hind foot, Lizzie noticed, so she was sure he wasn’t perfectly comfortable with her.

  He eased carefully onto the stool again, gingerly grasping the cow’s teats to pull the milk out. She stepped over, whacking her tail hard on Dat’s head, sending his straw hat flying across the stall. The girls gasped, just sure that her next move would be another resounding kick.

  “You better watch it,” Lizzie warned him.

  “She’ll be alright,” Dat said. He started milking slowly, pulling gently, until the cow seemed to be holding still and allowing it to be done.

  “Here’s how you do it,” he said. “One teat on each side. First the front ones, then the back ones. Don’t pull too hard, or she won’t let her milk down. If she doesn’t let her milk down, you can pull all you want, but you still won’t be getting much milk.”

  The cow seemed to be settling down, being reasonable, although she would not eat the feed Dat put in her box. Lizzie thought she didn’t look too relaxed, and, sure enough, just as Dat thought she would let her milk down, she crow-hopped away again, leaving Dat sitting in the middle of the box stall, looking as silly as he felt.

  Dat got up quickly—so quickly, in fact, that Lizzie knew he had had enough.

  “Dumb cow!” he shouted. He hurried around to the other side, pushing her none too gently to the place where she had been. “Now, whoa!” he yelled.

  He clapped the small stool beside he
r, firmly grasped the teats, and started to milk. He was not taking any more monkey business. The girls hid their giggles behind their hands, rolling their eyes to each other, so Dat would not see or hear them. He was not happy. The cow was definitely not enjoying this either, turning her head to look back at Dat as if to say ‘Why don’t you go get a milker and stop your stupidity?’ She turned to the feed box, snuffling around in the feed before licking up a mouthful with her tongue.

  Now, thought Lizzie, she’ll be fine. She’s relaxing enough so that Dat can finish milking her.

  He was milking methodically now, so he called the girls over to watch. They all slipped quietly into the box stall and held perfectly still, as the cow let down her milk. It was like magic. Suddenly, the milk came down into the bucket so thick and fast, the milk that was already in it became foamy. Instead of a thin stream that made a hissing sound, there was a heavy, thick stream that made a dull, swooshing sound.

  “See? She’s letting down her milk!” Dat said. “Now, when the milk slows down, that means you are about finished. But you need to be very careful to get the last bit of milk, because if you don’t, she could get mastitis, which is a bad thing. The milk gets all lumpy and curdly and she hurts when you milk her.”

  Lizzie felt sick to her stomach. Eww! Cows were not near as cute and “Laura Ingalls-y” as she had thought. Stinky old thing, she thought, but did not say it, because she was the one who had wanted the cow. She wished with all her heart she had never seen this strange creature.

  But the cow was there, and in time Lizzie learned to milk her. Mandy always went along and sometimes helped milk her, but mostly, the responsibility was Lizzie’s.

  Mam taught the girls to take a clean cloth and attach it on top of a glass gallon jar with clothespins, set the jar in the sink, and pour the warm, foamy milk through the cloth to strain it. She always fussed and scolded if there was any straw or dirt in the bucket, so Lizzie had to be careful to keep the milk as clean as possible.

  After the milk had been strained, it was cooled in the mechanical cooler in the basement.

  Mam bought a butter churn and the girls helped make the butter. That was fun at first, but became extremely boring after the first few weeks. You could turn and turn and turn that handle, and the milk sloshed around in the churn, looking exactly the same way it always had. The girls learned to take turns if their arm became tired, but as a rule, churning was a wearisome task.

  Mam loved the homemade butter to cook with. She said it made the best browned butter for noodles and mashed potatoes. It had a more pungent odor than store-bought butter or margarine. Mam always shaped the butter into a nice, clean bowl with a tight lid on it, and had a wide knife to take out a scoopful whenever she needed it.

  The longer Lizzie milked the cow, the more relaxed she became. So relaxed, in fact, that she and Mandy would often have an avid conversation when they entered the barn. Lizzie would throw a scoopful of cow feed in her box and grab the stool from the wall, kicking some clean straw around the back end of the cow. She would flop down on the stool, sit on it, bend over, and begin to milk with sure strokes. The cow was accustomed to the girls and never made much fuss. She had kicked once or twice, but it was never anything serious. Lizzie had soon found out if she kicked or didn’t act calm and docile, there was something she did wrong, like digging her fingernails into a tender area or something.

  So it all worked out well, after they learned to trust each other, till one cold winter evening when Lizzie was about halfway through the two back quarters. Without warning, up came the cow’s right hind leg in a vicious kick, hitting Lizzie squarely on the knee, then stepping solidly into the bucket of milk.

  Lizzie yelled as the stool flew out from under her and she sat down hard. She grabbed her knee, but saw the overturned bucket with all the milk trickling away.

  “Ow! Ow!” Lizzie cried, turning to crawl away before the cow stepped on her. She put her injured knee down, putting weight on it without thinking, and great searing spasms of pain exploded in her knee. She screamed, and Mandy joined in, while the harassed cow danced a jig in her stall.

  “You have to get the bucket!” Mandy cried.

  “I can’t!” Lizzie sobbed.

  So Mandy made a brave dive for the bucket, before the cow would trample it again. She opened the gate, her big green eyes rolling in fright, watching the cow, with Lizzie crying and yelling “Ow! Ow!” in the corner.

  “Lizzie, you have to get out! Right now! That cow is mad! She’s going to tramp on you!”

  “Help me!” Lizzie yelled, her face fire engine red and every vein in her neck sticking out.

  Mandy made another heroic dive, helping Lizzie to her feet as the cow watched belligerently in the corner. With Lizzie’s arm around Mandy, they made their way out of the barn. Mandy latched the gate quite firmly before they made their painful way to the house. Halfway there, Lizzie told Mandy she could not make it, and sat down in the snow.

  Mandy was quite hysterical. “Lizzie, get up! You can’t sit there in the snow like that! Get up!”

  “No! It hurts!”

  Lizzie resumed her wailing, so Mandy cast one wild-eyed look at Lizzie before dashing to the house. She returned promptly, with Dat buttoning his coat and clapping his hat on his head.

  “What is going on? Get up, Lizzie!” he said.

  “I can’t. My knee hurts too bad,” she answered.

  “The cow kicked her, Dat; I told you,” Mandy said.

  Dat knelt down in the snow, gingerly touching her knee.

  “Ouch! Ow!” was Lizzie’s response.

  “Let’s see if you can bend it. Come, let me help you up.” He took both Lizzie’s hands, pulling her to her feet, but she could put no weight on that knee. She tried to bend it, but found it too painful. So with Mandy on one side, and Dat supporting her with an arm around her waist, they slowly made their way to the house. Lizzie’s face was quite pale, her mouth clamped in a straight line, as she tried to endure the pain without yelling.

  Mam was inside the door, a very serious expression on her face. “Melvin, do you suppose she broke it?”

  Dat shrugged. “She sure can’t put any weight on it.”

  Even Emma was concerned. She hurried to bring the blue hassock and a clean, soft pillow for her leg. Lizzie eased into the platform rocker, and Dat gently lifted the injured leg onto the pillow.

  “Does that hurt too much?” he asked.

  “N-no.”

  Mam went down on her knees, gently touching the knee, asking Lizzie to bend it, and looking at Dat with worried eyes. “I wonder.”

  Lizzie probably could have bent her knee if she wasn’t quite so afraid of the pain. It definitely was starting to feel better than it had, but she didn’t say so. She hoped very much it was broken. She had always wanted a cast, because it would draw so much attention. She would have to go to the hospital and get piles and piles of get well cards. All her friends would want to sign their name on the cast. She would just sit there and give them markers, smiling prettily (but a bit painfully) and everyone would pity her and love her very much.

  “Now see what you can do,” Dat was saying. “Just try and bend it for me, to see whether you broke it or not.”

  So Lizzie obediently pulled up her leg, which really went quite well, considering the amount of pain it had caused her.

  “Good!” Mam said.

  “You’re lucky, Lizzie,” Emma said.

  “I don’t believe it’s broken. Probably just bruised rather badly,” Dat said, with a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll get my elastic bandage and wrap it real good,” Mam said, hurrying off to find it in the bedroom drawer where she kept her bandages.

  Lizzie didn’t say anything, because she was too disappointed. She doubted if she’d ever break anything in her entire life, the way this was going. She always just bruised or sprained ankles and knees. Well, if it wasn’t broken, she sure wasn’t going to sit in this chair very long; that was one thing sure.

>   Mam returned with the roll of Ace bandage, which was a beige-colored fabric that was soft and elastic. It was Mam’s answer for every ache and pain, so Lizzie gritted her teeth while Mam wound it gently around her aching knee. It didn’t even hurt very much, but no one was going to find that out now, as long as she could get all this attention. Besides, someone was going to have to finish milking that ignorant cow.

  “Dat, you have to finish milking,” she said.

  “What happened? Why did she kick like that?” Dat asked.

  “I have no idea. She’s just dumb! I wish we never would have gotten that smelly, ugly cow!” Lizzie burst out.

  “Who wanted her?” Emma called out.

  “Who thought it would be all ‘Laura Ingalls-y?’” Mandy sang out.

  “I still like her—just not if she kicks,” Lizzie defended herself.

  So Dat went to finish the evening chores, while Lizzie sat on the chair, her knee aching, and pondered the difference between what seemed all cozy and pioneer-like from the outside. But when you actually had a cow and a butter churn it seemed a lot different. Cows smelled bad, kicked, stepped in the bucket of milk, and had so many other disgusting habits, you could write a whole tablet full. It was the same way with making butter. The task was so tiring, you hated it before you even started. She shuddered, thinking about shooting a pig in the head and butchering it.

  She was most definitely not going to marry a farmer. Even to think of a whole cow stable full of huge black and white Holsteins was depressing. Smelly creatures! Then Mam always told the girls they must learn to pray for God’s will for their lives. She wondered if it was alright to ask Him to please not make her milk cows, though. There were lots of other ways to make a living that were just fine. Now she wished so much she would never have wanted a cow, because now she just had a brand new concern in her life: how not to ever marry a farmer.

  She sank down low in her chair, her brows drawn low over her eyes. The evening was long and tiresome, her knee still throbbed painfully, and her thoughts became steadily more burdensome.