11,261. RUDIMENTS, pt. 480

RUDIMENTS, pt. 480

(Milk)

One cannot re-imagine

the past (since you already

know the results), but you

can re-draw it, by changing

the conclusions. And thereby

hangs a tale. When I got to

the farm country and the farm

work there I ran with, there

was an old guy, already 80,

I think, who lived, with his

wife, also aged, on a really

old-fashioned farm, within

2 miles of me. Everything was

done by hand  -  nothing was

powered, all the winches and

ropes and pulleys where manual.

He did have an ancient John

Deere tractor, not often used.

John might as well have been

Amish; but he wasn't, by any

means. Neither he nor his wife

possessed any of that world-view

or the approach to things that

went with it. He was just ornery,

old, straight American stock. He

was a huge, still very strong,

old guy, with hands the size of a
small state. He lumbered around,

always in farm overalls, the kind

with the straps that went up

over the shoulders. Large feet

and boots. Steady and quiet,

his fortitude was strong and

ancient. John Harkness, and

Mary. Mary was like him in

all ways, with the household

side of thing, cooking old

recipes, doilies, neatness,

and waxed furniture that

shown. They had 15 or 20

Jersey cows (the brown kind,

richer butterfat content in

their milk, thus a bit better

paying from the creamery).

Everything was done by

hand  -  as I said  -  and that

including the milking, the

milk-cans, the delivery to

the dairy, the spreading of

 manure onto the fields,

the haying, the sticking,

and the cleaning. The old

barn was huge, and old  -

it might as well have been

1887 in there. The way it

all worked was that anybody

who had any extra time would

give a little of it to John and

Mary  -  someone was always

there, pitching in, helping out,

doing chores, whatever. Mary

always had food out, as her

thanks. John said very little.

Ever. I worked there numerous

times, in the hay mow, hauling,

cutting, sweating (a billion

degrees), lifting and the rest.

Everyone around was sort of

down and out anyway, except

maybe for the Mattocks (large

landowners, with a really

productive farm, almost,

industrial-like in operation

and space), and the Browns.

(The guy I'd bought my place

from). The poverty was the

kind that, because rural and

spread all around equally, no

one minded and everyone

took it on the chin equally

and helped each other out

when the pain got going.

Other than that, it wasn't

ever spoken much of. Those

that had, had  -  those without

just did without. Sometimes

you'd sense an undercurrent

of anger, or anxiety, or

even a simmering violence

in a few close to cracking,

but it usually found outlet.

-

John was so deeply committed

to the past that I'm not sure

he even knew what the

telephone was about. They

were a storied couple

roundabouts, because of

their ways, and their silence,

and their longevity; almost

mysterious; it was, maybe,

 mystical. Long about two

years in, the milk-production

companies  -  those who

took the daily product, and

paid, and any of this doable

as an 'industry' for all these

working people decided to

distribute their edict. Milk

would NO longer be accepted,

as of some date that was about

6 months off, in the usual way.

Daily milk-can pickups were

to be stopped, and each farmer

would need to have installed, or

in process at least, a bulk-tank,

which would hold, keep cold,

(38 degrees) and circulate, a

week's worth of milk. It would

also necessitate a paved driveway

for the bulk trucks to enter and

leave from, to the bulk-tank.

This meant that each farmer, and

I new at least 6 or 8 of them

going through this, soon faced

a 15,000 dollar or so outlay for

all this, and the clock was ticking.

Everyone flew to the bank, to

make their local arrangements.

-

Some time passed. There was

a silence, and old John never

made a move. At 80 years old,

or whatever the moment's age

was, 82 even, it was too much

for him  -  this new world stuff,

there weird concerns, the ways

and means. Everyone waited,

to see what John would do.

One morning Mary went out,

looking for John. She entered

the barn, and there was John.

Hanging from the rafters.

-

I don't know what happened

next, or who cut him down or

how any of that occurred. There

used to be an old saying of some

sort, 'What can you say after

you say you're sorry?'  -  it 

went something like that. T'was

a horrible scene. I'd never seen 

a funeral of that nature; a string

of farm-cars and others, single

file, along the skinny roadway 

over to East Springfield for the

burial. I guess most everybody

came out, and later on, back at

John and Mary's farmhouse, a

gigantic spread had been laid

out and  maybe 200 people

came through that afternoon.

My wife was part of the

help-crew with the food and

all, and I can still remember

that day  - the light through the

windows, the neatness and the

propriety of everything in all

its strength and silence, like

the large glove of tradition

into which everyone's fingers

were fitting. Small talk, sadness,

shock, and silence. Mary still

appeared dazed and far gone.

That was the last I'd see of 

any of that. I never did find

out how she made out, or 

got on.

-

Anyway, over at Warren's, 

(the house now all pitted 

and woodpeckered and

abandoned), the tank was

duly installed and the

driveway put in. We'd get

a weekly, or sometimes

less than a week, tank truck

to back in and take the

cold, frothy milk away in

tubes and pipes. The truck

looked just like an other

gasoline or fuel-oil tanker

you ever see. Some days,

before the truck arrived,

I'd just sit there staring in

to the milk tank, after I'd

opened the top so as to

watch the big fan-paddle

blade make its circular

swish through all the

foamy-topped milk. Cold.

White. Looking for all the

world, almost, like a huge

tub of Elmer's Glue. Which

it was, in a way, the hold that

it had on these sometimes

desperate people.