A
MORNING AT THE BONNIE DELL RANCH
By;
Dale (Ketcham) Day
I
don’t need an alarm clock to wake me. The big Rhode Island Red
rooster is on the roof of the stables and tells the world the sun is
near to rising. I chuckle as the Bantam rooster on the rail fence
surrounding the corral tries his mightiest to emulate the big guy.
The bunkhouse is still dark but I know it’s time to get up. This is
my week to milk the cows.
The
rug beside my bed is cool from the cement floor under it. I move
carefully so as not to awaken Wayne in the bunk above me, taking my
toilet kit from the wall locker before going into the latrine. I
usually shower when I first get up but will wait this time until
after I’ve finished my chores.
Light
blue eyes look back at me from the mirror and I run my hand through
my sandy red crew cut. As close as I look, there’s still nothing on
my cheeks or chin that needs a razor blade.
The
old pair of Levis is faded and worn but clean. Mom Lunt always
ensures we have clean clothes. I pick the red flannel, long-sleeved
shirt and don it before slipping my feet into my work boots. As I
walk to the door, I notice Ralph watching me. We exchange smiles
before he rolls back over to get another half hour of sleep.
The
sweet aroma of fresh mown alfalfa fills my nostrils as I savor the
dewy morning breeze. A few fluffy clouds off to the west reflect
sunlight from just beyond the high hills between the ranch and
Redlands. A pair of Red Tailed Hawks circle high overhead, sharp eyes
seeking field mice feeding in the pasture behind the barn. I can even
see a couple of Cottontail rabbits there, ears up to hear the first
signal of danger.
The
gravel crunches underfoot as I walk across to the stables. I slip the
stick from the hasp and open the door to the milk room. The two shiny
stainless steel milking pails are in their place and I take them with
me as I go to the next stall to fill a canvas bag with oats. As I
walk around the stables, I see Mom Lunt in the chicken coop gathering
eggs from the various nests.
“Good
morning!” she cheerfully calls out. I can’t remember any time
when she wasn’t cheerful.
I
return her greeting and enter the corral. Tom, the big gelding,
stares placidly at me before turning back to munch on a bit of hay.
The mare [I cannot, for the life of me, remember her name] ignores
me. She’s busy searching the stalls in the side of the barn for
something to eat. One of the other boys will be along soon to fork
hay for them.
It’s
no surprise to find both milk cows waiting. I hang the milk pails up
on a peg before walking behind the stanchions. I spill half of the
oats into each trough and slide back the wooden bar. I pull back my
hand to keep the Jersey from nibbling on it. She’s always more
eager than the Holstein. The next thing is to fill the bent up bucket
with water and go around to rinse off the udders of both animals.
Finally, I take down the milking stool and settle in next to the
Jersey’s right side. I rest my forehead against her warm side and
go to work. Even though her udder’s full, she’s still darned hard
to squeeze milk out of. It’s something like playing scales on an
instrument - except she’s so hard it feels like trying to squeeze a
basketball.
Of
course, the cats are there. Momma had a litter of six and all of them
wait patiently on their haunches. A stream of white lands near and
Momma cat sports ivory whiskers while her kittens rush to lap up the
milk with steam rising in the morning chill. I manage to get a little
over a half pail from the Jersey before giving up.
Hanging
that on its peg, I take down the other to go and milk the Holstein.
She’s easy. Her udder’s about half again the size of the Jersey’s
and usually fills a pail and a half. But, she had a heifer so I only
fill the one, leaving the rest for her baby.
The
two cows have finished eating and back out of the stanchions as soon
as I opened them. The next job is to wash down the concrete before
taking the pails to the milk room. A rich vapor rises from both and I
look forward to breakfast.
The
Jersey’s milk has a richer fat content so I put half of her milk
through the hand-operated separator, pouring the cream into a large
pitcher with a lid. The rest goes into another container to be mixed
with the Holstein’s milk.
After
taking both milk containers to the house, I return to the milk room
to sterilize the pails with steam. Pop Lunt has drilled into us the
rule that one always needs to clean up after doing the milking. It’s
only then that I return to the bunkhouse to shower and change into my
school clothes.
We
all wait until Pop Lunt comes in, hangs his old Stetson on its peg
and sits down at the head of the table before we take our places. I
don’t remember how we worked it out but there is some kind of order
in who sits where. I seem to remember that I am one place away from
Mom Lunt. Pop Lunt nods to Bruce and he says grace. Then we eat.
A
huge pile of scrambled eggs fresh from the coop. Rashers of bacon and
slices of ham from one of the Hampshire hogs recently butchered.
Home-style potatoes and two loaves of freshly baked bread. I happily
use my butter knife to spread unsalted butter from our own churn and
cover it with peach preserves Mom Lunt made from the two trees in our
garden. And, yes, a large glass of raw milk - this from the huge
fridge that I milked yesterday. I’ll drink the store-bought sterile
milk for lunch at school and it won’t be anywhere as good as this!
There’s
plenty for all and everybody finishes their plate. It seldom happens
but anything left will go into the slop bucket to be fed to the pigs.
The
other boys gather their schoolbooks. I never bring mine home as I
always get my homework finished at school, either during lunch or the
afternoon recess. Each of us picks up the sack lunch Mom Lunt has
prepared for us. We all wear jackets, three of us the blue corduroy
of the Future Farmers of America. We have plenty of time, so we make
our way through the orange grove on the far side of the Southern
Pacific railroad tracks. The big navel oranges are ripe for picking
and the owner never begrudges us any - after all, we’re there for
him any time it gets too cold and he needs someone to light his
smudge pots.
Another
morning at the Bonnie Dell Ranch.
The
End
