Golden Morning

I milked the herd last night and again this morning.

I hauled the basket of food and the milking pail and the cooler of water. I turned the table right way up in the milking shed and fetched down the stool. The chickens squawked and gobbled and cackled and got under my feet and jump into the basket until I scattered their grain and peas on the dirt. Watching them squabble, I scooped more grain into a bowl on the table. Zim waited right outside, pressing up against the mesh, bleating. Those ladies know their names and rank. When I opened the door she slid into place and began munching.

Zim lets her milk down easy and fast. While I milked I thought about the mosquitoes biting and that I am up so early these mornings and that I am enjoying myself. I fished out my iPod and listened to The Black Cauldron. By the time I was milking Haydee [i-day], the final goat, my book had ended and the sun was shining on my face. I remember that it was golden. Next time I’ll stop and look at how it looks when it’s shining on the dew and notice what color it turns the pasture. I need to stop and notice more so I can write better.

Calvin cut trees for the goats with his machete and filled two baskets of clover for them. I wanted to get home to write since I have a few hours in the morning. Tasha turned the key in the ignition and the van sort of puffed and then lay still.

“Again?” I said.

 Tasha laughed. “That’s funny.”

“No.” Calvin opened his door and got out. “Last night was funny, but not this time.”

I mentioned the bright side and said at least we remembered the cell phone so he didn’t have to run to Woodman’s to borrow a stranger’s again. We pushed the van up the tracks, got back in and I fell asleep until Dad arrived in our twelve-passenger. We shocked the farm van to life, filled up the oil at a garage, and stopped by Caribou Coffee to top off a fantastic morning.

~

Bread is baking in the oven. The smell of baking bread makes this child happy she’s at home sitting on the couch writing. I’ll always bake bread.  

Babies are so much more welcome when they have learned to do what grown-ups want them to do. Things like stay-on-the-mat and don’t-cry-when-I-put-you-in-your-playpen when mastered distinguish them as little human beings and not hairless beastlings. Jeremiah is becoming more and more distinguished every day, so that I love to watch him play by me and talk to me while I write and I like to teach him words and manners and noises.

The four older kids (props to us) are at a point where Mom can take over being Mother to all four at once. They’ve come a long way and make sterling efforts every day, but I am glad that Mom’s the mother now and it's not me anymore. I’m not good at five at once yet. Give me one at a time, please.

 Mom’s with them now catching frogs and butterflies in the back yard.

I mother the baby and do laundry and make bread. That’s it. I am writing, am I not? I had a nice break and now it’s good to get back to the old occupation.

I will write more later.