The Milking of Cows: A Lesson in Biology, Math and Science

A Sunday drive to the farm of my Mom's sister and her husband was a trip that we, the younger of the "city slickers" living at 210 Birch, anticipated with mixed glee...I write that because they had an Outhouse: outside, outofsight!

Aunt Dora and Uncle Henry (Hank) Ruhwer owned the farm located not far from Fletcher Chapel on Highway 71 (that would be going south from Atlantic as the crow flies). Mom was the best cook in town and we never went "without", but Aunt Dora had owned a restaurant at one time (ok, it may have been a bar/restaurant) and the flavor of her "cuisine" dishes had a taste of exoticness that Mom's never achieved. Whether it was the Manischewitz or the house wine that Auntie used, I have no incriminating evidence, but I don't remember my Dad taking an afternoon "siesta" quite so quickly when he ate Mom's roast beef on a stay-at-home Sunday. Many a haystack was artfully destroyed by the Cranston Kiddies after one of Auntie's meals; but I know now that any wine that is used for cooking purposes "cooks out". I am telling you this in all honesty so that you will confirm (please!) that it was probably our youthful energy and not a "buzzed condition" that turned us loose to explore the kempt barnyards, clean out the likewise chicken coop, pitch some hay, slop the pigs and ride bareback on the pet pony. Uncle Hank and Aunt Dora (second time around) married late in life (they must have been all of 60-65!) so this kind of helpfulness must have warmed his heart having not been exposed to possibly-wined-and-dined children prior to this. Tell me I am right! Not a mutter as we literally destroyed one hay stack so neatly piled high, climbing to the top and sliding down. Beats sliding down Cedar Street on sleds when the City Council would block off that street for us Buck Town Kids on a given wintery day, tho' that was cool!

When I was invited to spend a week one summer when I was 12, they taught me how to play Pinochle by the light of a kerosene lamp and how to confront my fear of, perhaps, finding a snake in the pristine outdoor privy which stood so proudly at the end of a well-trodden path. A trip to "the farm" was an adventure to this kid who, as the baby of my large family, was pretty much a "tagalong" on those excursions to the Sunnyside swimming pool, to the movies, or to Shenandoah to pick up bushels and baskets of fruit for immediate canning. Even today, a feeling of being "special" overtakes my every sensibility as I think back to the loving "character" that was my Aunt Dora, and to Uncle Hank who just smiled a lot...he was one happy man. Some things I just know!

When I was a young stenographer at the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company (my first real employer after graduating) I was responsible for keeping records of all that were born, raised, sold or died as far as animals were concerned...and every ton of hay and bushels of feed and corn that were grown by the farmer and consumed by those animals or sold at market, making sure that the tenant's fair share was earned and received and that all reports were promptly forwarded to the Home Office in New York City. Of course, the real hands-on work was done by the 10 or so Field Representatives at our Branch Office. I (along with other stenos) just typed out the facts, in duplicate or triplicate, and forwarded the results to the NYC "city slickers." With all my visits to the Ruhwer Farm, you would think that by the time I was 18, I would know what "dropped" meant when it came to cows, right? Nope, not a clue. But, by the time I handed in my letter of resignation in January of 1948 to Carl N. Kennedy, the Branch Manager and for whom I then worked, I knew what that meant and a bit more about the delicate condition that every farm kid knows by the time they are three! Here is some more of what I learned:

The Milking of Cows...a Lesson in Biology, Math and Science (by Moi)

Before there can be milk, buttermilk, cheese, yogurt, sour cream and ice cream, a cow has to deliver (drop) her first calf. A girl is a heifer until she is two years of age, when her first calf is born. A boy is a bull. Only heifers grow up to be dairy cows with all the perks of clean stalls and warm four-pronged metal milking claws....careful there, pardner! Be reminded that not all farmers living near Atlantic, Iowa, have milking claws; and their daily schedule is defined by hand-milking those producers of all that good liquid stuff mentioned above.

After "dropping" a calf, a calf is milked twice a day, producing five to ten gallons of warm milk. A cow is "tight" or "bagged up" because her udder is filled with 30 to 70 pounds of raw milk (all you new mothers...quit your whining!). It takes about eight pounds of raw milk to make one gallon of pasteurized milk. A cow "makes" the most milk right after she has a calf...(the blushes that poured over me when Mr. Iftner related those little pieces of information! I was doing just fine typing that 295 report until he got "graphic.") (With a straight face.)

A dairy cow will consume 35 pounds of hay, 20 pounds of grain and drink 35 gallons of water a day. I am not pulling these figures out of the air, people, but if there is any doubt as to their authenticity, direct all questions to Wayne McFadden (a newly-discovered cousin via the Marsh Line) or your local KJAN radio announcer Ric Hanson, who is looking forward to that day without mayhem, mishaps or Moi? A slow-news day!

So there you have it...you've just learned a lesson in Animal Husbandry and a bit more about a city-woman with country-gal leanings, observing the farm life as a kid visiting her Aunt and Uncle on the farm to the young Class of 1943 girl graduate pounding on a beat-up Remington typewriter at Met. Life., just smiling a bit at what THOSE NYC "city slickers" were in for!

And I'm smiling just a tad as I think to myself: Could it be that all the Borton-Marsh-Cranston ancestors/farmers have "ganged up" to make doggone sure this countrygalturnedcitywoman remains rooted to the land they once plowed and planted? Wouldn't put it past that earliest "Reiving" Cranston Clan, for sure!

"On the 29th of August, 2010..."

On the 29th day of August, 2010, an unknown number of graduates of the Atlantic High School, located in the Cass County seat town of Atlantic, Iowa, will gather to toast old friendships and old memories as reminisces are exchanged along with photos of the kids and subsequent generations of progeny. With reservations still "pouring in" (and how I am tempting the weather man on that one!)I am excitedly looking forward to greeting and hugging "old classmates" (and I am tempting scowls from Dale Anderson and Dorothy Schwartz and Dorothy Skow and Janice Clithero and Fred Vorrath and Wayne McFadden and Wayne Ullerich and Howard Paulson, and hopefully even more, with that aside!) and, as of this writing, have pretty much crossed off a long list of "to do" stuff prior to packing the one bag, taking Sadie to her "home away from home," locking the front door at 5529 and comfortably settling into the lush back seat of our GoShuttle private GoSedan, heading for the LAX airport and the Allegiant airplane that will wing daughter, Mary, and me to the smaller Des Moines airport on the 16th day of August, 2010. (I will go to any lengths to help our little "nervous nellie" enjoy her airplane ride, short of a Virgin Margarita!)

It will, also, be a day of "forgiveness, settling old scores, apologizing for some scurrilous past deeds, paying off monetary indebtedness, getting "tipsy"...taking the "girl/boy of your teen-age years' dreams" into your arms for one more dance! You know, "happily ever after" sort of stuff! Another scenario: For posterity's sake, what would be "better" than having one's name in the next day's issue of the Atlantic News Telegraph as being the instigator/and/or/hero of a rowdy situation while celebrating an All-Class Reunion? "Better" meaning "notorious!" "Worse," of course, would be seeing one's name on the Police Blotter, paying a stiff fine and slinking away in the dead of night!

No, No, No! Forget that second paragraph, folks, that only happens in the movies or in some Harlequin Romance Novel (which, incidentally, should NOT BE READ by anyone over 65 years of age and if you read Harlequin Romance Novels, you know EXACTLY why I write this!) Methinks I feel a "slow stampede to the Library" coming on! Upon rare occasion, I will take book in hand for "medicinal purposes"...jumpstarts the heart!

Anywaaaay, weather permitting, or better yet, in spite of the weather, the 29th of August, 2010, promises to be a day that will gladden many a heart of those "kids" who once strolled the halls of Atlantic High School, those "kids" being in the neighborhood of 70 years and growing. All of the responders/attenders have graduated from the High School that was an important WPA project completed just in time for the Class of 1943 to attend the complete six years since it also contained a Junior High School for Seventh and Eighth Graders. And, dear Reader, if there is any kind of shenanigans that takes place, I promise to Blog you! My Needle (school paper) experience will not go to waste. For once, mebbe, just mebbe, Mrs. Elmer Busse will smile my way! :)

But, mostly, Dale, Dorothy and Dorothy, Janice, Fred, et al... will remember those 1943 classmates who will not be in attendance this time but who have left an indelible imprint on my heart. We will call to mind and heart Richard (Dick) Pagel who served with Dale Anderson (Class President) and me (Class Treasurer-Secretary) as Vice President. Dick brought honor to AHS as a member of the Hawkeye Six Press Club 1943 First Team. (Those guys looked so cute in their sweaty uniforms at the end of a game!)

We will remember and smile at the unforgettable spontaneous antics of Richard (Dick) Johnson, Ronald Jones and Dale as members of The Dripolators; these three never failed to perform at the 1943 reunions, and we never failed to clap. (Dale, even then, had that intimidating eyebrow-lift thing he does so well even today. One of the reasons I cast my vote for him for President. Ok, this information does not translate as well as seeing the actual "lift!" Just take my word and that of his lovely wife, Ev...)

Even today, my heart is stilled when I remember Jaynee Cousins singing "Ave Maria" at one of our Christmas Assemblies. Her so-lovely voice is stilled today as she has the Julie Andrews problem with vocal nodes. I have only to close my eyes and her voice fills my soul....

So many kids, so many memories. The young girls who have been part of my life since Grant School in the early 1930's. June Wright, Shirley Woolsey, Twila Parrott from my end of town ... we were inseparable except on the days when three "was a crowd!"
"Four" was, of course, perfect.

Needless to say, the Class of 1943 has been diminished but only in numbers. What will never be diminished is the heart-and-soul of the Class of 1943, "The Best Ever" as Dale is wont to say, and we have the Banner to prove it. If I know Dale, he will have that Banner rolled up and ready to haul out on the 29th of August, 2010, at the Community Center in Atlantic, Iowa! In the meantime, I am going to practice on that "eye-lift" thing...better yet, I do a really good "Greet and Hug" bit that might need a little polishing.

I'll let you know how "that works for me!"

P.S. And now that I find I can tear myself away from Farmville on Facebook (tho' I do miss the lovely guys and dolls I have newly met there) without too much grief, I will be back another day to tell you more about Atlantic (my new friends call it "Atown" and that will take some getting used to, but I will) and that one-of-a-kind Class of 1943! (As far as I know, not a "jailbird" amongst us, but that can change on the 29th of August, 2010!)