Some memories

I grew up just north of a small town in Southern MN. My folks only had an acre of land, so we didn't farm. My dad's occupation was a can milk hauler. For those of you who grew up in the big city, I'll explain. Unlike today's modern dairy farms where anywhere from 100 or more cows are milked 24 hrs a day, farmers usually milked between 10-30 cows. It wasn't until the mid-sixties or so when the milking parlors became popular. Cows were kept in the barn in stanchions, let out to pasture in the summer, and kept in the barn all winter, being let out while the farmer cleaned the barn. Milking was done by hand with the small herds, or for the bigger herds with milking machines. The milk was poured through a strainer, with a filter, into cans which held about 10 gallons. It was my dad's job to drive around to the farms in a truck and pick up these cans and deliver them to the creamery. As we were growing up, my sisters and I had to take our turns in the milk truck. Since I was the 4th child, and the first son, my older sisters couldn't wait until dad decided I was old enough to go along all the time and relieve them of the duty. I think that time came when I was about 12. Every weekend during the school year, and everyday during summer vacation, I knew how I was going to spend my mornings. In fact, I went with my dad at the early age of five. I started out doing small simple things, graduated up to carrying the empty cans, to carrying the lighter ones, then the full ones, to finally being able to throw a full can of milk into the truck. I can vouch that a full 10 gallon can of milk is not the lightest thing in the world. The bed of the truck was about 4 ft off the ground, more or less, depending on time of year, angle of box, and if a step was available. We would pick up the milk from the night before, and that morning. (Cows were milked twice a day, on a set schedule.) Some farmers had as few as 1 or 2 cans of milk as others had as many as twenty five. There were even "basement barns" which mean the cans had to be hauled up a flight of 15 or more steps before we could even throw them in the truck. Dad and I usually alternated on these barns, carrying the empty cans down and bringing the full ones up, with one exception. In my "wilder" youth, I ummmm.........ummmm.........well I enjoyed the fruit of the vine, actually the barley and the rye. On such mornings after, my dad never said a word, never hollered at me or gave me a lecture on the evils of alcohol. After all dad did enjoy a few brews himself. However, as my punishment for breaking the law of the land, dad would stand at the top of the steps of these basement barns and let me carry ALL the empties down and ALL the full ones up. I wouldn't have been so bad except these were the farms with the 20+ cans. Until next time. Bye