essex farm is a farm way up north in NY state. they do just about everything there. they send out a weekly newsletter of the farm's happenings. i don't believe they have a website, but you can find them on facebook at 'the dirty life,' which is a book written by kristin kimball about her transition to farm life. this newsletter caught my attention more than usual (copied exactly from her e-mail newsletter). it is how farm life, and life in general, goes sometimes. everything seems like it is going to shit...there is too much to do and not enough time, the weather isn't cooperating, people don't show up to help... but then things fall into place...the rain stops, the seedlings grow, the tractors work.
Week 15, 2011
Sometimes it goes like this. Your kids have colds and nobody has slept for two nights for the hacking but it’s Sunday and you’re going to sleep in for once because a person we’ll call Twinkie Malone has contracted to milk for you on Sundays in exchange for milk. Mark will do chores and you and the two runny-nosed kids will snuggle back in for a little more dear, dear sleep. But just as you drift off Mark comes in to say Twinkie has not shown up and you need to get up and pack the sick kids in their snowsuits and put them in the stroller so you can go out and milk the cows. The mood can now be described as extremely not happy and the kids pick up on it, especially the elder, who resists the snowsuit, kicks off the boots, declares that she needs breakfast before she goes out. This last bit, actually, is reasonable. So you butter a piece of bread for her and pour yourself a cup of cold coffee from yesterday’s pot, then look at the clock and hustle. Tears now from both small sets of eyes, to go with the streaming noses. But then they are both in the stroller, bread in one hand, mittens on all the others, and you’re rolling.
You get to the barn and recruit Jane to push the baby around, a tactic meant to occupy them both. You get the first cow’s udder prepped and you’ve just put the claw on her teats when the stroller rolls into the gutter. You run to rescue the baby and the cow kicks off the claw. You try again, employing the cats this time to entertain Jane, parking the besmirched baby in front of the milker, where you hope the suck-suck noise will soothe her. You feel guilty for raising your kids on a farm. When a cat scratches Jane, you mistakenly dump the milk into the already full milk can and half a cow’s production runs onto the floor. You yell for Mark in a voice that implies that it’s all his fault. He leaves his chores, notes the milk in the gutter, scoops up the kids, takes them to the milkhouse, and plops Miranda on the floor, where you can hear her crying herself to sleep. That’s when Zea takes note of your inattention and decides to kick you, landing a good one on the kneecap. Silent rage, not toward the cow but toward the Twinkie.
Something else is wrong, and you’re not quite sure what it is until you spy the cup of cold black coffee on the step to the loft. Caffeine should improve the attitude, which is spiraling fast. You milk Sis, your favorite, a descendent of good old Delia, inheritor of her sweet nature. You can hear Mark singing with Jane in the milkhouse now, cockles and mussels, Jane correcting her dad on the lyrics; Miranda is quiet, asleep. You take the claw off Sis and put your coffee cup under her. There is still some good hindmilk in the back teats and you grasp one warm and soft in your hand and strip it out. The rich milk hits the coffee and foams, a farmer cappuccino. You milk and milk until your coffee is both light and warm and you sip. Milk is different right out of the cow. Sweeter. Mixed with the coffee, it’s heaven. You feed the cows and drink your coffee. You stand still then and listen to the sound of the cows munching and your family singing and you silently thank Twinkie, thank the god of the she-cow, thank the twisted and bumpy road that brought you to this very moment, this perfect place.
And that is the news for this spring peepers! 15th week of 2011. Find us at 963-4613, kristin@kristinkimball.com, on twitter @k_kimball, or on the farm, any day but Sunday.
-Kristin & Mark Kimball
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