West

1963

Dad said no to re-up and
Retired from the Army
Retired his rank.
Retired his uniform and brass.
Twenty-one and out.

We stacked suitcases and tent
Bedding and ice chest and everything else
On top of a sky-blue Rambler station wagon,
Tarped and tied
Packed the eight of us
Dad, Mom, three boys, three girls
Dad driving, driving
Mom riding shotgun

And then
West
It was June

Driving days were long long long
But we found things to do
I wrote down the names of states
From dozens of different license plates
And when trucks passed
I’d jerk my skinny arm up and down
Hoping for a honk honk
And laughing when they did

Dad drove, right hand draped
On top of the steering wheel
His other arm resting on the left door
Sunburned.

Once we blew a tire
And Dad fitted the spare
While we boys hunted in the tall sere weeds
For the hub cap
Mom passed out car games
Palm sized puzzles
Toys
Or snacks
When we got restless
John kept track of our adventures
Diary of The Blue Streak
Which must have been someone else’s car

Mom taught the girls how to use a single dime
For all four to use one pay toilet
We boys didn’t have that issue
Being stand up kinda guys

Broad fields rolled by
Endless rolling pastures
Some still green but
Turning to amber
Endless fences of barbed wire
Cattle behind
Mountains grew in the distance
And roadkill jack rabbits
Caught my eye

Binghampton NY
The Corn Palace
Mt. Rushmore
Yellowstone
The Grand Canyon
Salt Lake City
Los Angeles
4800 miles

In a sky-blue Rambler

Milking Time at Uncle Jack's

 

I rise at 5:30, light just burnishing the horizon

Uncle Jack is calling

Time to get up!

Its milking time on a 100-acre farm

And already warming in Central California

In the big valley

Yawning, stretching

I pull on jeans, a tee, rubber boots

In the damp pasture the cows are lying in the grass

And I prod a few with a hand to the haunch

Some rise on their own

seeing the others already headed

To the corral by the milking barn

They know the way and all that’s left for me

Is to bring up a freshened heifer who balks at the gate, wide eyed

Inside, the stalls are filling

As one after another finds her place

Head into the stanchion

Uncle Jack has the milking machines ready

And one at a time he hooks them up

As I wash udders clean

And the first milk

Warm still

Flows into the milker, up to the pipes

Over to the big stainless-steel tank

I get the cow chow

And one at a time each gets a ration

At Jack’s direction, some more, some less

One string at a time, in a particular order that

Jack keeps straight in his head

Elsie, Mergatroid, Brownie, Valentine

No numbers on the girls, just names

Until we’ve completed four, maybe five strings

The heifer is last

Into a stanchion alone

Where she is locked in

Waiting for the breeder

Week after week we do this

But somehow this 14-year-old isn’t bored

Doesn’t tire of it

And the cows head back to the pasture

Ambling slowly, udders now flaccid

Tails chasing flies