11/04/1848 - Where Does Milk Come From?

11/04/1848

Dear Readers,

     Thought you city folk needed to see what kept us in the milk barn twice a day sitting on a low three-legged stool with our forehead buried in the cows side pulling teats for the milk to make our butter, cheese and hard cash. 

     Around 4 PM  go find your Holsteins in the day pasture.  "Come bossy.  Come bossy". Usually they'll be as far away as they can get down in the woods, but with a good dog and a willing lead cow, you can get them all in a row to meander back to the barn.  

     After milking, pour the milk into standard milk cans and lower those into cold water in the spring house for overnight storage.  Then turn the herd out into the night enclosure of about a quarter acre so you won't  have go to lookin' for them in the dark  next morning around 4 o'clock. Finally, shovel the manure from behind the cows' stanchions into a stinking wheelbarrow, go out the barn, push the load up a steep ramp and dump it on your ever-growing hill of cow shit. 

    After the morning milking,  turn the herd out into the day pasture and shovel shit again.  Then gather last night's milk cans and this morning's cans together, put them on a flatbed wagon and drive the team into town to the milk processing plant.  You should be there by 7 so you'll have the rest of the day to do all the other chores that go into scratching a living from a small (32 cow) dairy farm. 

     Now here's farmer Jack to give you a little demonstration.  He should be on that three-legged stool--but then he'd be talking into the the cows udder instead to you. What Farmer Jack doesn't show you in this movie is the way this nice bossy can fill those long hairs at the end of her tail with manure and wrap it around your face.  Also there's the trick where that back leg comes up and gives you a nice hoof kick in the gut.  Nice bossy .   And the 32 hours bit he's pushing--what's he think we have all those kids for??  We start milking when about the age of five.....

10/30/1848 - Suffrage for Supper

Monday 10/30/48

Dear Reader,

    Yesterday, as usual, Fay and Sewell were here for Sunday supper--this time joined by Jacob and Delia Ackler. You might remember Delia? She's one of Henry Getman's girls. Well--while last week's gathering centered on that promised discussion on planting hops--more on that later-- yesterday's hit upon politics and the upcoming presidential election. 

    Throughout the meal, quiet conversation centered on the weather and the merits of the preacher's sermon. After the meal over coffee--things changed--and the Getman's stay was cut short.

    Seems that Delia and her elderly 65 year old mother, Caty, went to that women's meeting in Seneca Falls this past July and now Delia is passing out some propaganda sheet they signed about getting the vote for women. She didn't bring the pamphlet with her to the table but she did bring the topic. 

    Last Sunday as anticipated, Mother spoke about her reservations at being in the "spirits business". Truth be told, she did so with quiet grace. In the end however, the men-folk calmly determined it best to try the crop.

    In contrast, Father heatedly ended all discussion of Delia's topic by declaring the idea of woman voting as, "utterly ridiculous-- preposterous--not worthy of serious consideration--never going to happen --against the will of God--etc." 

    He proceeded to heap another shovelful of hot coals upon the fire when he concluded that, "Delia! A married woman should not be going behind her husband's back to attend such inflammatory meetings. And a woman of your mother's advanced age and elevated station in our community should know better as well."

    At that point, Jacob spoke up in some high dudgeon to announce that his wife and mother-in-law were not the sort of people that would sneak about--in fact he had carried them over to the meeting and had been one of the 32 men who had signed the meeting's Declaration of Sentiments.

    So saying, he graciously thanked Mother for the meal, took his wife by the arm and escorted her to his carriage.

    Father retired to the sitting room to smoke his pipe and fume while I stayed at table to finish my coffee. 

    Strangely, Mother didn't seem upset at all but rather busied herself in cleaning up with a distant look in her eye and some soft contented singing from which I caught the words of a hymn,

"From strength to strength go on,

wrestle and fight and pray:

tread all the powers of darkness down,

and win the well-fought day."

I thought of talking with her on the matter, but then thought better of it.  Perhaps  later..

Your Perplexed Correspondent,

Chauncey Sherman Seckner

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