WRITE TEAM: This old barn tells stories

In the evening darkness, I walk across the grassy yard to the barn. By the light of the lamp, I open the barn door and say hello to the cows and calves. Ushering Peggy Sue into the milking stall, I give her a slice of the very tastiest hay, which she happily accepts.

I sit down on the milking stool and get her washed and ready to milk. Stripping a few first squirts on the ground, I hold the bucket between my knees and start milking with both hands, squeezing one after the other in rhythm.

Swish, swish, swish, swish. The milk sings into the bucket as it foams richly.

A calf nose appears at the gate; the fuzzy month-old calf looking at me with curious eyes and long eyelashes. After a long moment and a hello from me, she trots off to more interesting things.

In the quiet of the barn with the sound of the milk and the gentle sound of the cow munching hay, a peace settles over me. I haven’t found a better place for silent contemplation than with my head close to the cow’s flank smelling the welcome scent of cow. My hands are busy, but my mind is free to wander.

I look at the beautiful old barn illuminated by the light set on the bale beside me. Proud and straight support poles sturdily hold up strong beams overhead that support the hay mow floor, where the winter’s feed is stacked high toward the rafters. Weathered walls bear the marks of years of use by cattle. Pegs on the wall used to hold harness for the draft horses of yesteryear.

In my mind’s eye I can imagine this same barn when it was new, with a flock of sheep in their pen across the barn, team of horses in the box stall munching oats, and cattle lined up with heads in this rack eating hay just as Peggy is now. The farmer walks through the barn looking over his stock with care, leaving them cozy and warm as he closes the door and heads into the house for the night.

And here I am today on this peaceful evening, milking an old-fashioned Milking Shorthorn cow with the echoes of the past in my heart.

Peggy’s ancestors have been living on farms like this for generations, as have mine. We’re both rooted in the traditions of farming, linked together with the land in the deep, familiar way that can be felt but only partially explained.

I take the last creamy squirts of milk, stand up and thank Peggy for sharing. She looks at me with mild eyes, happy with a mouthful of hay. Doing a final check of the animals and pitching a bit more hay for the night, I bid the cows good night.

I close up the barn for the night, heading to the warm farmhouse kitchen to strain the milk, thankful for the weighty gift of farming in the footsteps of those who have gone before.

• Martha Hoffman Kerestes is a farmer and freelance writer in rural Streator.