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

as we lifted the bucket and balanced it first on a knee and then lifted again to lean it against the edge of the strainer. When we rested the weight of the bucket against the strainer, the strainer tilted. Milk splashed. “Yipes!” I jerked as milk soaked through my sleeve.
    “Hold it still,” Jane barked.
    “I’m trying,” I gasped through gritted teeth as we righted the bucket. “It’s heavy.”
    “Okay. Lift again. Tip the pail just a little.” We lifted the bottom of the bucket higher and poured the milk a little at a time into the strainer. Jane was two inches taller and I strained on tiptoe to keep my side of the pail even with hers.
    “Not too fast. It’ll run over,” she said.
    When we finally emptied the last milk into the strainer, I breathed a sigh of relief and stared at Jane. “How do you lift that by yourself?”
    She shook her head, “Dad doesn’t usually fill the buckets that full. I guess he thought we could do it.”
    “I can’t,” I shook my head. Here I’d been given a chance to help with the milking and it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to. The excitement I’d felt earlier drained out. Instead, fear that I could not do the job knotted my stomach.
    “You’ll get the hang of it. Come on. We have to get going,” Jane grabbed the empty pail and I trailed behind her back into the barn. I was not so sure.
     
    When we set the bucket down in the alleyway near the cow Dad was milking, neither Jane nor I said anything about splashing the milk. But looking up at us as he squatted between the cows, Dad’s eyes trailed over the milk-soaked sleeve plastered clammy and cold to my arm. “Squirt, go get another pail out of the milk house.” I ran back into the milk house and grabbed the nearest pail off the rack on the wall.
    When Dad took the bucket off the next cow, he poured half the milk into Jane’s pail and half into mine. I hoisted the bucket alone. I took a few steps, wobbling under the weight, the edge of the pail scraping against the side of my leg. It was still heavy. Straightening my back, I kept walking. If Jane could do this, so could I.
    Jane leaned her back against the milk house door and pushed through. I did the same. Once inside, we set our buckets down. “Look at my hand,” I said, showing her the white ridges where the pail handle pressed into my fingers.
    “Yeah. Me, too,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, turning her palms up to me. “You get used to it. Come on. I’ll help you empty your pail.”
    When we lifted the half-full pail of milk between us, it felt light by comparison. This time, we didn’t spill any.
    “Let me show you how to do it yourself,” she said after we emptied my pail. In one swift move, she took the other pail of milk, lifted it with both hands until she could rest the bottom rim on her knee. Then she held the handle with one hand and grabbed the bottom rim of the pail with the other. With what looked to me like superhuman strength and in one even move, she lifted the pail up until the top edge rested lightly against the strainer. She emptied it without spilling a drop. “Got it?” she asked when she brought the pail down from the strainer.
    “I think so,” I frowned. “What if I spill it?”
    “You won’t. Now let’s go,” she said and turned back to the barn.
    I grabbed the other pail and followed. I hoped I wouldn’t. I wasn’t so sure. My confidence was not as great as when we walked down the hill from the house. This was a lot harder than I had thought.
    I set my empty milk pail near the cow Dad would finish milking next. He was crouched down by the cow, checking the flow of milk from the teat cups into the milking machine. Just as he looked up at me, the cow swished her tail and smacked him flat across the face. I clapped a hand across my mouth to stifle a giggle. Dad grimaced, grabbed the cow’s tail and tucked the end behind his bent knee. “That’ll fix her,” he said, winking at me.
    Dad moved among the