First-borns often lord it over their younger siblings by talking about the ways thing were before the family got electric lights or indoor toilets or anything that supposedly made life easier.  In my case I could claim to be the only child who had to learn how to milk Old Jersey.

I never became good at it, but here’s how my daddy did it: right hand up to the udder, nudge with the thumb, squeeze rhythmically, pointer finger, index, ring, pinkie. Left hand up to the udder, nudge with the thumb, squeeze rhythmically, pointer finger, index, ring, pinkie. Right hand, left hand, right, left, switch teats, right, left, right, left.  The result was two streams of warm milk alternating as the tune changed from the long metallic “p i n g, p i n g, p i n g, p i n g” of milk hitting the bottom of an empty pail, to the “swoooosh, swoooosh” of warm milk foaming into hundreds of frothy white bubbles.

Milking done, Daddy turned the calf in to suck unless it was being weaned. In that case, he would strip the teats, that is, milk out the remaining milk. The cow was turned out to pasture if this was a morning milking or kept in the pen if it was night.

The pail of milk was taken to the house, strained into a crock through a clean, white cloth to remove any foreign matter. It was then covered with a saucer and placed in the little G.E. refrigerator. (Yes, we already had electricity.)

Later, after the cream had been skimmed off the top for churning butter, the milk would be poured into glasses or used for cooking.  I loved the taste of cool buttermilk and also clabber.The first time I saw milk for sale in the grocery store it surprised me. I thought every family had a milk cow.

I never learned to orchestrate those streams of warm milk like my daddy, but I managed to get the job done. There were times when Old Jersey, tormented by flies, switched me with her prickly, cockle-burred tail or kicked up her hind leg causing me to lose my balance, falling backwards and spilling milk all over myself.
That old cow knew how to keep a boy humble.  By the time my brother Joe was old enough to learn how to milk, Daddy was working on road construction regularly and we no longer kept a milk cow.

Now I have to confess that I myself could never have written such a good description of the milking process.  The credit goes to one of my elderwriters, Lucille Patterson Harris.  A first-born herself, she had a tough time convincing her dad to teach her how to milk.  You see, he believed that girls belonged in the kitchen with their mothers.  The deal they made was that she would hastily stir up the cornbread for supper and leave the baking of it to her mama, in order to become a skilled milkmaid.  She went on to become a good schoolteacher and excellent writer.

Jerry Lincecum is a retired English professor who now teaches classes for older adults who want to write their life stories.  He welcomes your reminiscences on any subject: jlincecum@me.com