in the odd course of my life i've made two attempts to milk a cow: once by hand, and once by machine. the milking machine was - easily - the most bizarre device that i ever encountered. it all seemed wrong, really. the nipples in question were each as big as my thumb, and the point of the activity was to draw them into the milker's stainless steel cups. the cups, in turn, were each connected to a stainless steel pail with bits of black rubber hose. and the whole thing was driven by a pneumatic line - with an air compressor at the end of the works.

i was going to be gentle. but the old girl let out a fearful "mooo!"
"nope. gotta be quick," my uncle corrected me.
"i was trying to be nice to her!"
"yeah. but you caught her half in, half out," he informed me.
i made a sad face.
"hawhaw," he laughed, "buy candy and flowers?"

my uncle, rich, was born in chicago in 1933, and married there in 1965. then, in 1967, he moved to wisconsin with his wife: sophia. my uncle is german/swiss and his wife is polish. i think it's fair to say that at various times they have proven the best, and worst, stereotypes of their respective ethnic groups. the two of them did it though: they, and their infant daughter, left the south side of chicago and started a new life with 6 cows, on 141 acres, in richland county.

it wasn't easy. to make ends meet, my uncle spent a year working in an iron foundry at night - after working on the farm all day. and then after he left the foundry, he drove a route with a milk truck for three years - after working on the farm all day. my aunt was an equal partner in the farm work; she grew and canned half of what they ate; and she raised two children while doing it.

as a boy, the family farm was my favorite place in the world to be. summer: riding the fender of the '52 allis wd tractor, and hanging on for dear life. deer and black bear, bobcat and wild turkey did as they pleased where the pastures met the thick, wild pine and walnut forests high atop the knolls. the floor of the farm house was a sheet of vinyl - with holes worn through by the family's familiar strides. the slamming of the screen door on the porch broke my aunt's brittle cool. and the cabinet in the kitchen was stocked with crystalline blue plastic tumblers - which were then filled with water from a natural spring on the land. that damned dacschund "pepper" would always hump my leg. but the other dog, "coco," was the best shepherd ever; she had her own little house, out on the front porch. she was my friend for life after i brought her a beef sandwich. she's still up there: buried beneath a stand of wild asparagus. "they never grew so well before," my uncle is fond of saying. talking about coco is one of the few things that will make him cry.

the cat population of the farm waxed and waned over the years, depending upon how horny and well-fed they happened to be. i still have a small scar on my left palm, from my effort to avoid injuring one of the felines: i had been riding my cousin's over-sized bicycle down a gravel road, and over a bridge, when one of the cats crossed my path. as i steered to avoid her, i lost control of the bike - and was sent tumbling: head-over-heels, flying through the air. i fell off the bridge and landed below: caught upside down in the barbed wire fence that my uncle had erected to stop the cows from crossing the creek that was spanned by the bridge. my uncle, mother, and grandfather watched it happen. and, being german, they all began to laugh - as it appeared to them to be the highest form of comedy.

it never occured to me that we didn't have money; nothing seemed to be missing. my relatives were interesting: they did things, and they had stories. my uncle had driven stock cars - a 41 buick, and a 52 olds - at raceway park, down on ashland near 127th. the willy brothers built the rigs; their carb shop is still there on south western avenue. and my uncle trimmed trees, and he worked in a tire shop, and then he ran off with the railroad - gambling. farming wasn't close to being his first job, or his only job. but farming lasted longer than anything else - because there wasn't anyone standing behind him, telling him what to do.

eventually, his son - my cousin - took a position at the local chevy dealer. he wasn't going to follow his father's path; it seemed to be too difficult to live in the old way. my uncle sold his herd: 23 head, with a dozen of their young. and then the state paid him to plant walnut and pine, reforesting the pastures below the hills. one day, i think it was in '94, he sold it all: barn, milkhouse, shed, farmhouse, and all of the wonderful green space.

in the winter, now, he travels from his little house in the hills of western wisconsin to his trailer near blythe, califonia. my aunt is still there with him. they're approaching their 40th wedding anniversary: the most successful couple that i know. the two of them took a chance with their lives; and they held on, together, to the thorny rose of hillbilly romance. i think of them often, as in the 36th year of my life i feel that i have seen too much, done too much, and need to get the hell out of dodge - and into some place like they found, along with someone who's willing to take a chance with me...