A Morning on His Farm (Final Version)

Daisy Parker Focal Point: Place A Morning on His Farm “Grab those buckets, girl.” I almost tripped over the chair leg as I’m running to the back porch to get the two dented buckets. Holding one in each hand, I let the screen door slam behind me as I hurry down the steps to catch up with Uncle Otis. It will be light soon because I hear that mean old rooster crowing. I’ve been scared of that rooster ever since he chased me. Walking close behind Uncle Otis, I try to place my feet where his black rubber boots are making big footprints in the dew. I feel goose bumps on my arms from the chill in the air, but soon it will be so hot that Uncle Otis will be taking off his tattered straw hat and using the ragged red handkerchief he carries in his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. The barnyard perfume fills the air. Only people with a passionate love for farm animals can appreciate this smell. The chain jiggles as Uncle Otis unlocks the gate. The sound of the chain rattling lures about twenty animals to us. They know Uncle Otis is coming. There’s a magical respect between these animals and Uncle Otis. They know his voice, his smell, his touch, and his love. They trust him completely. I would never walk in this pen alone, but when I’m with Uncle Otis, I feel perfectly safe with these magnificent animals. First we slop the pigs. It looks like garbage to me, but the pigs must love it by the way they gobble it up. I laugh at the huge black sow because the watermelon on her snout looks like she’s wearing smeared red lipstick. When the food is gone, she slowly wobbles to the dry hay and stretches out. Then here comes ten of the cutest black and white squealing piglets stepping all over each other as they snuggle up to her grunting around looking for their breakfast. The horse, the cows, and the calves follow us to the crib barn. Putting the buckets on the ground, I follow Uncle Otis into the barn. I reach my hand into the burlap sack and scoop up a handful of oats. I slip out the barn holding out my hand to feed the old plow horse, Bell. As she gently nibbles the oats, I feel her soft lips and wet tongue tickle my hand. She lets me pet her soft nose until she sees Uncle Otis carrying the big bucket of oats to her trough. Then she immediately turns away from me and follows him. I grab my two milk buckets because the moment I’ve been waiting for all week finally arrives. I get to milk a cow! Ol’Betsy knows the routine. She slowly walks into this tiny wooden shed with the rusty tin roof and the dirt floors waiting for Uncle Otis to pour her food into the trough. While she’s eating, he hooks a rope around her neck, and then he sits on the milk stool. “Daisy Margaret, hand me one of those buckets.” I watch Uncle Otis place the bucket under Ol’Betsy, and then he gently leans the top of his head against her warm side as his eyes focus on the movement of his strong fingers squeezing the soft udders. The steady beat of the milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sounds like a song to me. I’ve watched him milking Ol’Betsy for five days, and I think…this is going to be so easy. Not wanting to nag him, I start wiggling around hoping Uncle Otis will notice me. Finally he gets off the milk stool and says, “Sit down and let me show you what to do.” (I think it, but I don’t say it…I already know what to do.) "Take your thumb and first finger making a circle around her udder. Then squeeze real tight. Next, start curling your other three fingers going down the udder.” (He shows me with his big hands as he explains it). I try to do exactly what Uncle Otis told me to do…no milk. I try pulling on the udders…no milk. I try twisting the udders…no milk. Ol’Betsy should kick me to make me stop, but she just keeps on eating. After trying for what seems like hours, huge tears start filling my eyes. Uncle Otis must have noticed my tears. He could have teased me or said I told you it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t. "Daisy Margaret, I think your hands are just a little bit too small. I bet by next summer when you’re seven, your hands will be much larger and you’ll have this bucket filled up with milk. Why don’t you just talk to Ol’Betsy and make her stand still for me while I finish milking her.” In later years, he tried several times to teach me how to milk a cow, but I never learned. I guess my hands never got large enough. This quiet, unselfish man never married. He took care of the family farm his entire life. Four years after his death, I proudly named my first born son, Benjamin Otis. I never forgot how his words healed my broken heart that morning. Uncle Otis taught me how to ride a horse and how to love and respect animals. He taught me that life is good and family love is a blessing, and now, that son I named after him, has a beautiful farmer’s tan, a kind heart, and that same love and appreciation for his family’s land!