A Morning in Thach – Part II

Reprint of Original of 9/26/00 Open Diary

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My grandfather was positioned on the ancient stool just to the front of Bessie’s left rear leg, his right shoulder leaning into her thigh to alert him of any sudden movement and give him time to move clear of a surprise kick. His arms were operating as if on a pulley – left up right down, right up left down – each hand exerting a gentle and progressive pressure on the teat as the arm lowered, beginning with the thumb and continuing down to the little finger. Each upward move would see his hand move into her bag just a bit in order to bring down a maximum amount of milk.

The sharp ping of the milk hitting the silver pail gave way to a soft muffled rhythm as the bucket began to fill and the warm foam covering met the cool morning air, emitting little wisps of steam. My grandfather would smile and let me move over by him as he guided my hands into position very patiently. What a thrill to feel that stream of milk empty into the pail, though I never established the rhythm he had.

Once Bessie was milked dry, we covered the pail with the clean milk rag which had been brought from the house, picked up the milking stool and together left the stall. The world inside the barn was a soothing chorus of contented chomping as we swung the doors shut.

Walking back outside it was clear that daybreak was quickly gaining as the darkness of the sky gave way to a lighter gray with some streaks of pink and touches of yellow. Later on in the heat of the midday sun it would not seem possible that the morning had held such a chilly darkness. The long pasture grass now began to take on a green hue in the approaching light and though it still felt damp and cool on my skinny legs, it seemed to be somewhat drier and stand a little taller as it shed its wet nightime blanket and prepared to dance away another summer day.

Our retreat was heralded by the crowing of the old rooster and subtle clucking noises as we passed the henhouse. My grandmother would come out later to turn them out as she did her own outside chores. The birds were waking up and signaling one another good morning and it seemed there must be millions of them hiding in the treetops. My grandfather’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a retreating owl through the trees, but I wasn’t fast enough to see it.

At the pasture gate we repeated our actions in reverse and turned from the pasture to head home. We could see the old farmhouse with smoke swirling upward from the chimney spreading out darkly against the breaking dawn and the warm welcoming yellow light shining from the windows. The mingled aromas of bacon and coffee would reach us and I began to picture the pan of biscuits in the warming oven covered with fresh churned butter. Eggs would be ready to slide into the old iron skillet just as soon as our feet stomped onto the porch.

The back porch was screened and just inside the door on the right stood a very old whitewashed wooden table which held a water bucket, a chipped enamel wash basin and a copper soap dish. My grandfather took the dipper from the wall over the bucket and filled the basin so that we could wash up for breakfast. I took my turn first and shivered at the sudden chill of the cold water splashing against my face. My grandfather passed off the pail of warm milk to my grandmother and she covered it with yet another cloth as she set it aside to be strained and dealt with after breakfast.

Walking into the kitchen from the porch, I was swallowed up into the warm humid environment as my grandmother lifted the eggs from the skillet and onto the platter with the bacon. The coffee pot on the back of the stove perked away and little clouds of steam burst forth from the spout and carried the most wonderful smell. I always wished for a cup of coffee with a taste that matched that smell.

My grandmother gently scolded me for dragging dirt in on my shoes as she moved the biscuits onto the table, slid the platter of bacon and eggs in beside them, poured coffee for my grandfather and a big glass of milk for me. She quickly planted a kiss on the top of my head as she passed behind me and my grandfather and I shared a secret smile. We both knew that her chastising would progress from dirt on the kitchen floor in the coolness of this morning, to running in the house when she called me in for dinner, to slamming the screen door as the sun began to wane and supper was on the table.

As a young girl having breakfast in my grandparents’ kitchen basking in the warmth of a wood stove fire and the love of these two special people, I had no way of knowing I would never feel more loved or more safe than on that early summer morning in an old farmhouse in Thach, Alabama.