Free Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl by Carol Bodensteiner

calves bawling in the nearby pens. Light from bare bulbs and the even, heartbeat thumping of the vacuum pipe that ran the milking machines suffused the barn. Up on a ledge, a dust-covered radio fed us a steady stream of weather and farm reports, local news and country music.
    “Squirt, Tooter, get the buckets. You can feed the calves with this milk,” Dad said when he saw us. We grabbed the galvanized pails from the hooks in the alley and set them down by the feedbox just as Dad pulled the teat cups off a cow, flipped off the vacuum valve, disconnected the hoses, and lifted the heavy milk bucket off the belt hanging around the cow’s middle.
    When he poured a measure of milk into each of the calf pails, I saw that the milk was tinged yellow. That cow had calved recently and I knew her milk couldn’t go in the tank yet. “Tooter, make sure the new calf gets some of this,” Dad said. Jane nodded. We picked up the buckets and Jane stepped into the calf pen to feed the newest baby calf while I stayed in the alley and fed other calves through the slats.
    The oldest and strongest calves shoved the smaller ones out of the way, plunging their noses deep into the fresh, warm milk. “Hey. Don’t be so pushy. You’ll all get some,” I growled. Struggling to hold the pails steady, I wedged them against the side of the pen, bracing each one with a knee. With the weight off, I could flex my fingers and get the blood flowing again. Dad could balance two buckets in each hand and feed four calves at the same time. I would do that, too, someday. Today, just two buckets presented a challenge.
    It took only seconds for the calves to drain the buckets. After the calves sucked up all the milk they could, I tipped the remaining drops into the cat pan where half a dozen cats waited to lap it up. This was the kind of work I already did during evening milking. Carrying milk was the new challenge.
    With the calves fed, Jane and I stepped up by the five-gallon pails, ready to take over carrying milk, a task Dad and Mom had handled before we got to the barn.
    “Tooter, you help Squirt,” Dad said.
    “I know how,” I protested.
    “The bucket’s heavy. It’ll take both of you,” Dad said and he filled the pail nearly to the brim.
    Positioning ourselves on either side of the pail, Jane and I lifted at the same time. Taking short steps, struggling not to spill even a drop, we made our way with the heavy pail to the milk house. As Jane pushed open the milk house door, I heard Mom say, “Harvey, they can’t lift that.” Glancing over my shoulder before the door swung shut behind me, I saw Dad watching us. “Hmmph,” he grunted as he crouched down between two cows. I was going to prove that I could lift the pail. I could do the job.
    “Wow,” I whistled once Jane and I were in the milk house and set the bucket down. “This is heavy.” We flexed our fingers. I stared up at the strainer on top of the bulk tank. I looked down at the pail full of milk. Forty pounds at least. Maybe 50. “How are we going to get it up there? It’s so high.”
    The bulk tank filled half of the milk house. A stainless steel monster, the tank was big enough to hold the milk from milking the cows morning and night. A cooling system at one end of the tank ran a paddle that stirred the milk and cooled it as we poured more in.
    The top of the bulk tank met me at eye level. The stainless steel strainer, fitted with a disposable filter pad, was positioned in a porthole on top of the tank.
    “We can do it,” Jane said. “We both have to lift at the same time.”
    “I don’t know,” I eyed the bucket and the strainer warily.
    “We can. Grab hold,” Jane ordered. “Are you ready?” she asked when I’d taken a position opposite her and had a good hold on the pail handle.
    I nodded.
    “When we get it halfway up, rest the pail on your knee, grab the bottom of the bucket with one hand and we’ll lift it the rest of the way.”
    I drew a big breath and held it