Now & Then: Sighing over spilt milk

I was a big drinker as a boy. But I never got drunk. You see, it’s almost impossible to get high off of milk.

My mother grew up on a dairy on what’s now Buffalo Ford Road south of Ramseur. Back then dairy farms were as common as chicken farms are now.

Her father, Horace Edgerton, not only milked cows but he also drove milk to the creamery for processing.

He would stop by other dairies to pick up milk cans along the way.

Milking cows was much more labor-intensive back in the 1920s and ’30s. Those two or three dozen cows had to be milked by hand. And it was twice a day, starting at about 5 or 6 in the morning and ending around 6 or 7 at night.

That’s why Mama, like her older brothers and sister, left the farm when she turned 18. Her younger sister, Bertha (known as Bert), married a young farmer named Jasper and they continued to run the family dairy.

Meanwhile, Mama met Daddy in Ohio, they married, had three boys in quick succession, and moved back to Randolph County. That was fortunate for me since I could visit my cousin Tommy on the farm, which provided many opportunities for recreation.

But 5 o’clock meant it was time to go to the milk barn to help Uncle Jasper milk the cows. By then, modernization meant milking the cows with automatic milking machines. Tommy’s job was to make sure the cows had feed in their troughs and to empty the full milk cans into a large vat in the next room.

I learned to enjoy the taste of cold, refreshing raw milk. Mama would keep a gallon or two in the refrigerator.

She had a glass jar with a hand crank that we would fill with the cream that settled at the top of the milk. With that, we made butter.

Rather than driving the five miles to Aunt Bert’s to get milk, Mama decided to buy milk from a neighbor just up on the highway. And since that milk was so much closer, I was given the task of walking over there and carrying it back to our home.

There was no question as to my ability to handle the job. I was a strapping 12- or 13-year old who had become conditioned by playing Little League and PONY League baseball. Not to mention riding my bike back and forth to ball practice a couple of miles away.

The day came when I was to walk to the neighbor’s and retrieve the milk. I avoided the highway, instead following a path through the woods. It was probably about a half mile, one way.

When I arrived, the lady placed two gallon jars of milk in a cardboard box. I gave her the money, picked up the box and started back through the woods.

There was a problem. Try picking up two gallons of milk. I just checked and found that a gallon of milk weighs 8.6 pounds. At that rate, my box of milk weighed in at 17.2 pounds.

That doesn’t sound like much but I had to carry it in my arms for half a mile. And it got heavier as I went along the woodsy path.

The problem was exacerbated by the fact that the two jars kept bumping into each other. These were glass jars, after all.

By the time I reached our property, one of the jars had cracked and milk was seeping out. That caused the cardboard box to weaken and I had to hold my hands underneath to keep it from collapsing.

I finally got home and had to tell Mama that our two gallons of milk were more like one and a half gallons.

After consulting with the neighbor, it was decided that, henceforth, milk would be picked up via automobile. And the cardboard box would need to have a divider to keep the jars from banging together.

As an adult I continued to buy raw milk from farmers. But I was always careful how I handled those glass jars.

Now all my milk comes in plastic. Oh well.

Larry Penkava is a writer for Randolph Hub. 

Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.