Heather

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

I walked into my youngest daughter’s room to tuck her in for the night and discovered her practically awash in tears. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” she sobbed, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her pajamas. “I’m just sad.”

“Why are you sad? Is anything wrong?” Being the only man living in a house full of women has taught me to be patient when trying to fathom the complex mysteries of female emotion. This one in particular is a tough nut to crack and she requires lots of questions to get her talking about her feelings.

“Do your legs hurt?” Over the past few weeks she has experienced severe leg pains at night; “growing pains” we call them.

“No, I’m just tired.” Her standard answer for “I don’t want to talk about it right now because I haven’t fully explored the depths of this emotion yet myself” confuses me. Just ten minutes ago she was a happy-go-lucky sixth grader as she placed her request for me to play on the piano while she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed.

I circled back around to one of her previous answers; usually an effective icebreaker for me. “What are you sad about?”

As she prepares her answer I give her a monster tuck, one of her favorites, pulling her comforter up to her chin and wrapping her like a mummy, pinning her arms tightly to her sides. This is not a tuck for the claustrophobic or faint of heart. I kiss away her tears and encourage an answer, “What’s making you so sad?” I reach over and turn off her light because sometimes answers come easier in the darkness.

“It was so pretty. I had to cry.”

“What was pretty?” I’m still lost but starting to make some headway; she’s opening up. I think to myself, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." I was gearing up to impart some fatherly wisdom.

“The music,” she paused, “It was so pretty but it made me feel so sad inside. I had to cry.”

I thought to myself, Vangelis’ theme to Chariots of Fire is sad? In the almost twenty-five years since I first played that piece I have heard it called many things, but sad was never one of them. As I thought back to my high school years, I remembered why I loved that piece so much. It was because of the energy I could put into the keys as I pounded out the first seven measures of staccato sixteenth notes. What teenaged boy wouldn’t love the rapid pace and heavy punishment of the ivory this song demands of the pianist? I can still hear Mrs. Janes emphatically calling out time for me, “one-e-and-uh, two-e-and-uh, three-e-and-uh, four-e-and-uh” and clapping her hands to emphasize the staccato nature of the introduction.

But, in quieter times, I also remember Mrs. Janes encouraging me to put my heart into the pieces I was learning to play. Every time I heard that directive, I would recommit every fiber of my being into the piece, playing ever harder, sadly realizing I was not accomplishing her desired effect but not knowing how to change my style to reflect my heart in the piece.

I realized tonight that, while I had started playing the piece with my typical tempo and gusto, a feeling of melancholy had swept over me part way through the song. Tonight I had unconsciously played the song differently than I had ever played it before. The music spoke to me and I had responded as I massaged the keys.

“Would you like me to play it again for you?” Heather nodded. “I will check on you when I am done, okay?”

“Okay.” In the dim light I could see the faint smile she managed to tweak out for me.

This time, as I started to play her request, I played through my heart.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

Milking 101

“Grab the pitchfork and go get a couple flakes of hay. I’ll get Belle.” Dad whistles and yells out across the pasture, “Here Belle!”

Belle’s head pops up from her grazing, a small tuft of grass hanging limply from her mouth. Her ears were cocked towards Dad; she was assessing the situation with her limpid eyes.

I’m not sure what breed Belle was, but she had to be the largest of all the cows that paraded across the Ranch over the years. Whenever I walked near her, Belle’s coarse black and white hide would tower over my lanky, teenage frame. Another piercing whistle, “Belle!” and the gentle mountain began to move toward us.

“Is this enough?” I hold up the pitchfork.

“Double that.”

I increase the load of hay on the pitchfork and swing it up onto my shoulder, calloused hands confidently gripping the sun-aged wooden handle as the load rotated. Belle spied the hay and her deliberate pace quickened. She was all about routine and hay signified her evening routine was about to begin.

“Throw the hay in the bunk and get out of her way.”

I tossed the hay and jumped up on the rail of the massive wooden feed bunk Dad, Gary and I labored over last year. Eager to get at the hay, Belle pushed her head into the stanchion and I pulled the bar against her broad, muscular neck, deftly dropping the block into place.

“She’s locked in Dad.”

Standing up on the bunk, I can look over Belle’s back and see Dad coming out of the barn with a small bucket of rolled oats (Belle’s favorite) in one hand, and the shiny, stainless steel milk bucket in the other.

“What are you doing up there? Last time I checked, all the plumbing is back here.” As I jumped down I realized school was now in session.

“Ok, watch what I am doing with my hand.” We are standing near the backside of Belle, just out of range of the whip-like tail as it cracks at another biting fly, high up on Belle’s back.

“Make a circle with your thumb and forefinger and keep the others pointed out.” Kinda like the universal sign for ‘OK’ which is ironic, because that is not how I felt at the moment.

“You’re going to squeeze the milk from the top of the teat down to the bottom.” Sounds easy, but I’m not so sure. All my confidence has drained into my tennis shoes.

“Start with your circle, squeeze, and then slowly close the rest of your fingers, one at a time.” He demonstrates.

“Like this?” I try to mimic the fluid movement of his fingers. “No, watch my hand again.” He patiently demonstrates the motion again and again. “Be sure to squeeze from the top to the bottom and alternate your hands”

Oooohhh, like doing scales on the piano, only my fingers are squeezing instead of pressing. I try again.

“Like this?”

Dad smiled, “There you go, just like that.” His son might be a prodigy after all. “That’s the right motion, keep practicing. I’ll go ‘round and we can milk her together.”

Just like that?! I look down at the massive udder, swollen with twelve hours worth of milk production. Don’t we need formal introductions first?

As I squat down, Dad is already sending rhythmic streams of the translucent liquid into the bucket. The milk makes a sharp sound as it strikes the bottom of the bucket.

Psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet.

One hand is squeezing just a fraction longer than the other.

“Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”

“No.”

“Do just like you practiced.” Dad’s voice is muffled by the massive bovine separating us. “Go ahead, you can do it. Just watch her, if she starts to raise her leg, push your wrist against the knuckle just above her hoof. You don’t want her to kick.”

“Why will she kick?”

“She’s kinda antsy tonight; the flies are biting pretty hard.”

“I don’t think I can stop her.”

“You’ll be surprised; it doesn’t take a lot of force to stop a cow from kicking. You just have to catch it as she is raising her hoof.”

I stare at the black and pink bratwurst-like teat. This seems weird. Are you sure this is legal?

Dad’s cadence hasn’t changed, but as the milk starts to fill the bucket the sound changes.

Pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot.

“You can do it. Just grab ahold and squeeze like you practiced. You’ll see. It’s much easier than you think.” Gentle encouragement, no relenting. I am going to have to do this. I grabbed the teat and squeezed. A couple drops of milk found their freedom in the bucket.

“Oh!”

“What?”

I was not expecting the almost hot, supple texture of the teat.

“Nuthin.” Embarrassed, I try again and this time my feeble efforts produce a dribbling flow of milk.

“There you go! You got it. Just squeeze a little harder. You aren’t going to hurt her.”

As my confidence grows, the tiny streams get stronger and more rhythmic. Our conversation fades as we focus on our task. A thick layer of foam is developing on top of the milk, muting the sound of the streams.

Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.

The familiar sounds of the Ranch gently creep into my consciousness. A fly buzzes. The gentle swish of Belle’s tail over my head.

Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.

Belle’s molars slowly grinding the sweet alfalfa hay. Suzie yipping excitedly. She must have cornered a gopher. A rooster crows somewhere off in the distance. We continue milking in the comfortable silence of two souls at peace with the world.

Dad finishes first, stands, stretches and pours the oats for Belle. “When you’re done, take the milk up to your mom. I’ll close up down here.”

Dusk is closing in on me as I strip the last few drops from Belle’s now-depleted udder. I stand, and as I lift the sloshing bucket I hear, “Good job son.”

I grin from ear to ear and walk just a little bit taller.