Moving on up!
By Bill Shepard
We had a radio and an ice-box; we were moving up in our world. We could listen to Amos and Andy, and the Kingfish every evening, while drinking cold milk. Yes, we had a milk cow! Wow!
After dad bought the ice-box, mama started saving money with which to buy a milk cow. It took a while to save the twenty-five dollars but mama was a genuine conservative. She could squeeze a nickel until the buffalo bellowed! When mama announced that she had saved the amount needed to purchase the cow, dad and I went to the country to purchase our prize. I didn’t know it but dad already knew where to go. I even remember the farmer’s name and know exactly where he lived. John Brown; I called him Mr. Brown, lived on a small farm about two miles from the mill village where we lived. I had been to the place before with dad to purchase figs that mama would cook into preserves, but I didn’t know that he had talked with the man about purchasing the cow.
Bill Shepard
We were never more proud than the day the cow was delivered to the house on the village. Mr. Brown tied a rope around the cow’s neck, then tied the rope to the back of a wagon that was pulled by a big brown mule. That was common transportation in that day. The cow followed along behind the wagon as they traveled to the village.
Dad had been at work for days building a barn where our new addition would be kept. Pine slabs from the saw mill had been hauled to the site where the barn was built. The place was referred to as the “cow pasture.” I don’t recall another cow being kept there but ours. The pasture was a large parcel of ground that was bordered by the swamp land along Swift Creek, not suitable for housing. The land was used by the village folk as a place for hog pens and cows. It was also a place where children met to play. Today it is grown over in trees.
Dad named our cow Mary and he would stroke Mary’s back and head and talk to her as though she was human. Mary was gentle and we were all as fond of her as if she indeed had been human. I liked to watch dad milk Mary. He was the only one who knew how to draw milk from the cow’s teats. Every time that dad would get the large pail and head toward the barn, I would follow along. Dad would allow me to squeeze the cow’s teats like he did, but it took a lot of trying before I was able to take over the job of milking the cow!
Mary furnished all of the milk that our family could use and some to spare. Mama would skim the rich cream from the milk and keep it in a large jar. When she saved enough it was time to make butter! We didn’t have a butter churn so we would shake the cream in the jar until it would change to butter. How crude! But that is the way we did it! Yes, it would take hours of shaking the jar. That job fell to my older brothers and me. One day dad came home from town and announced he had purchased a butter churn. It was a small one, unlike the ones usually seen in pictures. It made churning the milk to butter much easier and faster. It remained with our family for as long as we had the cow and long afterwards. When mama made butter, she would sell the buttermilk to one of our neighbors. No one in the family liked buttermilk. I do not recall how long that Mary remained a part of our family or what happened to her. It became my responsibility to milk Mary in the evenings and dad would milk her in the early mornings before going to the mill for his day’s work.
During the years we had Mary she gave birth to several calves. I liked to attend to the young calves and to ride on their backs! When they were old enough, dad would either sell them or butcher them. Ah, what memories!
With electricity in our house, a radio, ice-box, milk cow, and butter churn, we were indeed moving up in our world! What’s next? Next time!
Note: Last week’s article about the man that owed me forty cents drew a quick response! Imagine my surprise when I went to the mailbox and found a letter with forty cents enclosed! More about that next time!
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week.
His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C., 29673.