Free Spirit Pouch by Stanford Vaterlaus Page B

corral toward the post, I feel like a cross between a pom-pom girl and a ballerina.
    I drop the hay and carefully back away a few steps.  William lifts the rope that is coiled and hanging on the pole and swings a loop over the cow’s head as it ducks to eat the hay.  In the same motion he wraps the loose end twice around the pole and tucks the end under, making a perfect clove hitch.
    I know how to tie one of those knots, I think as flashbacks from scout camp remind me of the Pioneering merit badge.  But even though I know how to tie a clove hitch, and twelve other knots, I have never seen a clove hitch used for something real.  Of course, in the back of my mind, my subconscious still debates whether all of this, William, his family, the cow, are actually real.  But I am giving in.  I do not understand why I am in this real place, but it does seem real enough.
    I watch William slide a bucket underneath the cow.  He pats her gently, “That a girl,” he coos soothingly as he kneels down by the bucket and reaches toward her utter.  “Easy does it, Spot.”
    “Spot!” I blurt out with a loud laugh.
    The cow looks at me and steps to the side, tugging on the rope and kicking the bucket three feet away.
    William stands up and pats her side, “Whoa, whoa.  Its okay,” he soothes.  He turns toward me.  “Her name is Spot,” he says quietly.
    “But …”  I want to say that Spot is a dog’s name, but William holds up his hand, signaling me to be quiet.
    “When you milk a cow, you have to talk softly,” he explains.  “Otherwise she kicks your bucket over and you get nothing for your work.”
    I can suddenly think of a dozen questions like, “You don’t drink this stuff before it is pasteurized, do you?” or “How do you know when you’re done milking?” but William stops me again with his hand.
    “Tell you what, Jared.  You just watch me do the milking and tomorrow I’ll let you try.”  Patting Spot’s back, William up rights the bucket and sets it back in place underneath the utter.  In a minute William has a gentle, steady rhythm of warm milk flowing into the bucket as he alternately works his hands, pinching off the teat and then gently squeezing it to extrude the white liquid.
    The morning is quiet and the early sunshine feels good on my arms and face as I lean on the corral and listen to the steady squirt of milk hitting the pail.  I watch a horse drawn wagon roll by, stopping only once for a man to jump onto the back.
    Across the field of grass a woman steps out of a small log cabin that really looks more like a one room hut, and shakes a cloth, then goes back inside.  What a great morning! I think.  The sky is clear and the air is crisp and clean.  I can look in any direction and my view seems limited only by the mountains themselves, or by the numerous log houses nearby and dotting the entire valley floor.  It is odd, in a strange way, to be in the mountains and see so clearly.  Pleasant, but odd just the same.
    “Okay, Jared,” William says softly as he stands up and hefts the pail of milk.  “Take the rope off her neck and let her go.”  William wrestles the milk pail over the corral fence while I slide the rope off Spot’s fat neck and coil it lazily over the wooden pole.
    “How much did she give?” I ask, trying to sound business like.
    “About three gallons. [16] ”  William lifts the pail again and heads for the front porch.  “She used to give more,” he explains, “but she hasn’t had a calf for awhile and is beginning to dry up.”
    “How much do you need?” I laugh.  “Your family couldn’t possibly drink three gallons a day!”
    This time William laughs.  “Of course not.  But we can nearly drink one.  Mom likes her boys to be well fed.”
    “What do you do with the rest of it?” I ask.
    “Mom sells it during the day.  There aren’t too many dairy cows around here, so Spot’s milk brings a pretty good price.  When she can’t sell it,