It's Milking Time Read online

  Text copyright © 2012 by Phyllis E. Alsdurf

  Jacket art and interior illustrations copyright © 2012 by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alsdurf, Phyllis, 1950–.

  It’s milking time / by Phyllis Alsdurf ; illustrations by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A young girl spends a day helping her father milk their cows, as she does throughout the year.

  ISBN 978-0-375-86911-2 (trade)

  ISBN 978-0-375-96911-9 (lib. bdg.)

  ISBN 978-0-375-89993-5 (ebook)

  [1. Farm life—Fiction. 2. Cows—Fiction. 3. Milking—Fiction. 4. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.]

  I. Johnson, Steve, 1960– ill. II. Fancher, Lou, ill. III. Title.

  PZ7.A46263Its 2012 [E]—dc22 2010047772

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For my father, Lloyd Andrew Gibbs (1911–1989), and Jay-Jay, one of the much-loved Holsteins on our Minnesota dairy farm

  —P.A.

  For Karen

  —S.J. & L.F.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  First Page

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  I slip under barbed wire

  and race down the lane.

  Fast.

  I’m late.

  Dad’s waiting on me

  to start milking.

  “Come, boss,” I holler.

  “Come, boss.”

  There by a stand of poplars,

  a huddle of black and white

  starts to move.

  Jay-Jay, as usual,

  leads the Holstein parade.

  Single file they come,

  on the same worn path.

  “Come, boss, come, boss.

  It’s milking time.”

  Cuds a-chewing,

  tails a-swatting,

  hooves a-pounding,

  into the barnyard they trudge.

  I close the gate

  and head to the barn,

  where Dad piles grain

  in front of each stall.

  I scoop soybean meal on top

  and set up the milkers.

  Together we lay down a bed

  of fresh straw.

  Outside, the cows

  bellow and snort.

  “Ready,” Dad says,

  and I open the barn door.

  Impatient and hungry,

  the cows heave themselves into the barn.

  Their hooves clack

  across the cement floor.

  We swat rumps to keep them moving,

  to the same places every time.

  I lock each cow in her stanchion.

  Dad washes off teats.

  A is for Alphie, always first

  to be hooked up to a milker.

  A leather strap across her back

  holds it in place.

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  I lean against a dusty windowsill

  and see sunlight setting

  on a field of corn.

  Dad’s arm rests on my shoulders.

  “Sure could use some rain,” he says.

  The air is hot, heavy.

  Overhead a fan whirs.

  Tails swishing,

  the cows chomp and chew their cud.

  Dad turns on the radio, low,

  so we can hear the weather report,

  or maybe

  the ball game.

  I hear the slurp of suction—Alphie’s done.

  “Time for Bertha,” I yell to Dad.

  Alphie, Bertha, Cassie, Di …

  an alphabet of cows to milk.

  Each time a milker fills,

  Dad empties it into a pail that he carries,

  arm outstretched for balance,

  to the milk house.

  A cascade of blue and white

  empties into the strainer

  and gurgles through

  to the milk can below.

  Dad pours some into a pitcher

  to take up to the house

  when milking time is done.

  Underfoot, cats lap up foamy spills.

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  In a corner pen,

  a half dozen calves

  wobble awkwardly

  on legs spindly and weak.

  They bawl for attention,

  and shove their boxy heads

  between worn wooden slats

  as they nuzzle for food.

  Feeding them is my job—

  something Dad lets me do

  all by

  myself.

  I fill their trough with a pyramid of grain

  and unravel a bale of hay.

  Dad hands me a pail,

  heavy with milk for the calves.

  I climb into the pen,

  and a small calf

  with a triangle of white above his nose

  bumps against me.

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a friend,” Dad laughs

  as he moves a milker to the next cow.

  The calf gives a baby moo.

  “What do you want to name the little guy?”

  The calf nudges my leg,

  and I wrap my arm around his neck.

  He looks up at me with liquid brown eyes.

  “Buddy,” I say.

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  Soon every cow’s been milked,

  and two,

  three,

  four cans have been filled.

  One by one we unhook stanchions.

  “Go on, girls. Get outta here,” says Dad.

  “Tch, tch,” I urge from behind.

  “Move on out to pasture.”

  Then the barn is empty.

  A swallow swoops

  through an open window

  and out again.

  We shovel manure into gutters

  so the paddles of the barn cleaner

  can carry it to a waiting spreader.

  Later it will fertilize the fields.

  I scrub the milkers and strainer,

  up to my elbows in suds.

  Dad lifts the last milk can into the cooler.

  Tomorrow they’ll go to the creamery.

  The milk gets made into butter and cheese.

  Or poured into bottles

  and sold in stores and at farmers’ markets

  everywhere.

  People in places near and far use

  the milk on their cereal,

  the cheese on their sandwiches,

  the butter on their sweet corn.

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  We fan out bales of straw—

  bedding for the morning—

  when it will be milking time

  again.

  Dad opens the cooler

  and takes out the pitcher of milk.

  By now a thick skin of cream

  floats on top.

  Mom will
skim it off

  for morning coffee.

  And I’ll drink the milk,

  our milk,

  with my pancakes.

  As the summer sun disappears

  and the sky turns a dark shade of blue,

  Dad and I walk up

  to the house.

  Single file,

  on a path

  worn in

  the grass.

  For one more night

  milking time is done.

  Every morning, every night,

  it’s milking time.

  Every day of the week,

  every week of the month,

  every month of the year,

  it’s milking time.

  Phyllis Alsdurf grew up on a southern Minnesota dairy farm, where one of her chores was to run down the lane and bring the cows to the barn for milking. In that herd of Holsteins was her father’s favorite, Jay-Jay, the cow to whom this book is dedicated. Today Phyllis teaches writing at Bethel University in St. Paul, Minnesota. She lives in the Twin Cities with her husband, Jim, and two boxers, Stella and Sophie.

  Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher have illustrated over thirty-five books for children, including Jim Henson: The Guy Who Played with Puppets, A Boy Named FDR, and The Boy on Fairfield Street by Kathleen Krull; My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss; and New York’s Bravest by Mary Pope Osborne. I Walk at Night by Lois Duncan was a New York Times Best Illustrated Children’s Book of the Year. Steve and Lou live in California with their son, Nicholas. You can visit their website at johnsonandfancher.com.

 

 

  Phyllis Alsdurf, It's Milking Time

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