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By Root 1082 0

after she had planted about three times more than she needed said simply, “I like them.” But perhaps she also might have missed the annual social ritual that shelling peas summoned forth. And I could not discount her own statement. The fresh raw country pea gave out a green gush, a sweet explosion, like no pea taste I’d encountered. But so it was with the tomatoes and the corn—the taste exploded in your mouth. And we discovered potatoes. I’d always assumed that the potato was an obligatory starch accompaniment. Now a bite of a buttery young potato fresh from the ground was close to a taste of heaven. Vegetables were becoming the main course. For that matter, mealtime itself was assuming a new place of importance in our lives. It wouldn’t have taken much thought—if we had wanted to put in the thought—to realize why.

The signs of how hard we actually were working often came surreptitiously like this. Ravenous hunger. Mmmmm. Another clue was the pants that started falling down. These incidences provided fleeting signals from which one could infer hardship. This was the exact opposite of the modern gym, where people keep constant track of physical effects in mirrors and dials that actually focus awareness on the exertion itself.

Anyway, as for the peaches, Mrs. Miller and Ada decided to stay long enough to help dismember them (even though we hardly were deserving of still more service). With their help, the task began to assume the same festive air as a quilting bee—or what I imagined one would be. It took extra effort on Mrs. Miller’s part not to smile and fraternize, and by the time she departed she had lost some of her stoicism in this regard.

Another time, as I was deep into recording some insight or another, the persistant rapping sound came again. Caleb and Amos, the two youngest Miller boys, were at the door, stringing a cow behind them.

“Hello, Mr. Brende,” said Caleb. “This cow’s just calved and Dad, well, he thought you might like to have ’er ’round, sort of to learn how to milk ’er. Have you ever milked a cow before?”

Inwardly I groaned, Not now. But to Caleb I answered that I had once done so on a school field trip, and I followed him toward the barn.

“She’s only been milked a couple of times,” he explained, dragging the animal for all he was worth. The cow was stretching away from him and craning her neck as he pulled. He was but a rail of a boy, and it was a marvel the cow didn’t pull him over. “She’s a little skittish. Whups!” The rope slipped from his hands just as we crossed the threshold of the stable. The cow made a circle inside the interior, and stormed us for the exit. “Quick!” Amos darted sideways to swing shut a lower door-piece but seeing how small he was, I dashed over and planted my body next to his. The cow drew back, and Amos secured the door. “She’s missing her calf,” Caleb said.

Now to grab the cow’s leash. I lunged; she dodged. I stalked; she backed off. The game continued. When Caleb and I finally went at her from two directions at once, she ran up the middle with a tumultuous prancing of hooves. This cow clearly had missed a career in the NFL. Despite my initial reluctance to follow Caleb to the barn, my heart was now pounding, my eyes glinting. I was caught up in the game. Finally, with one last desperate dive and scoop, I caught hold of the rope. Caleb tied her up.

“Now,” Caleb said, seating himself on an overturned plastic bucket, “see these two dugs here? I think she’s dry on this side.” He was tugging on a side of the udder that looked withered. “But you can still get a lot out over here. See?” He began pumping rhythmically from a plumper area and milk squirted into the bucket. In no time two inches had accumulated. The cow stepped forward, and Caleb automatically shifted the bucket to avoid the foot. “Now you try.”

Having come this far, I was a bit bolder than I had been at first, and being reminded of how to clasp the teat between thumb knuckle and index finger, actually saw my first sizable squirts of cow milk. A certain reckless ease was the secret. Thinking too much about