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Show lyj By CAROL LEMON J soon filled the bucket. Nothing to it, I thought as I grabbed on and squeezed. Nothing . . . Again. Nothing. Barbara tried. Same results. re-sults. I tried again and felt the milk going back up in the udder instead of coming out. Must be doing it backward we giggled. Old Gurnsey looked back over her shoulder at us wonderingly. It wasn't milking milk-ing time. What did we think we were doing anyway? We gave up. The rhubarb plants are still there, as are the currants cur-rants that made the most wonderful jelly for our homemade bread. The willows still arched across the creek where we once had a shady hideaway. hide-away. One could meditate, dream, or even snooze once In a while, while poking a bare toe in the cold, mountain moun-tain water gurgling by. It was home, alright. And luckily, the folks are still there, full of the memories, family beginnings, heartaches heart-aches and family treasures. We children are on our own how, but our memories of the old home place, the daily happenings which were our beginnings and formed the persons we were to become be-come are ever with us. . . fresh - warm - comforting, holding us and forming that invisible bond that lovingly and patiently turns individuals indi-viduals Into families. What is there about going back home to the place we spent our childhood,that warms the heart as no other emotion can? We were home the other day. The old home still stands the long row of bothersome but beautiful Mulberries is gone. Remnants Rem-nants of the large, productive orchard remain. . . The crabapple that overshadowed the old outhouse is there, along with the long barn red chicken coops and machine sheds. The old log bridge still tiptoes over the willow lined creek that lulled me to sleep so many years ago. The old barn remains, but the old Gurnsey is gone - as are , the innumerable calves -lambs, hutches of furry rabbits, rab-bits, Babe, the old brown ' Mare, and Lass, our faithful faith-ful Collie, who ran by my side for 17 years. Yet, in a way, they are all still there. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see and hear the old familiar fami-liar forms, feel the soft i fur, the rough tongue, taste the sweet scent of fresh milk. The hand stacked . hay mows, corn bins, granary. . . I can see them all. I remember the time I went out on a fresh summer morning to treat old Babe to a just -picked carrot. I stood by the granary door and called her softly. I leaned forward, my hands clasped behind me, and called call-ed her softly. She quietly 1 reached her head around the ' corner behind me and pulled the carrot from my hands. She'd outsmarted me again. There are talents . . . and there are talents. Milking was NOT one of mine. My friend, Barbara and I once locked Old Gurnsey in the barn and determined we'd milk her or else. I'd watched Dad do it a thousand times, usually my brain and tongue rattling on until I am sure he'd have been glad if I had taken my childish prattle elsewhere. Swish, Swish. . . the steady white streams |
