Reading my fave mag mental_floss
I come upon this fascinating factoid: President William Howard Taft had a pet
cow. Her name was Pauline Wayne. She lived on the White House lawn and provided
the household’s milk.
Not that remarkable for 1909, I suppose. It wasn't in 1945,
either. That’s when we had Bessie in the backyard of the Methodist parsonage in
Zionsville, Indiana.
Those were the days when congregations were hard pressed to
support themselves, let alone pay a preacher. To supplement what they couldn't
drop in the offering plate, it was common to hold “Pound Parties” at which each
family would donate a pound of something, such as flour, butter, eggs, etc.
Mother used to recall with tears in her eyes the sacrificial way their parishioners
would surprise them with a good pounding.
But the most wonderful gift was Bessie, the gentle
fawn-colored Guernsey who came to live with us. Daddy, having been raised on a
farm, had no problems with her care. She was such a marvelous producer that
Mother had ample surplus to churn into butter and culture into cottage cheese, which
she sold to the community.
But then came the day when Daddy was at an out-of-town conference
come milkin’ time. And Mother, being city bred, had no idea what to do. She did
know that poor Bessie was bawling with an aching udder and Mother, who had
nursed both us girls, was in full sympathy. It didn't take her long to give in
to my older sister, 5 at the time, who was tugging on her apron insisting she
knew how to milk Bessie.
And she did. She looked so small perched on that 3-legged
milking stool, head pressed against the warm flank, her pudgy fingers precisely
pulling, squeezing, and lifting at the teats. I can still see those long, dark
brown finger curls hanging down her back over a red-checked pinafore, and hear
the milk hitting the pail in thin but strong intermittent streams. It’s one of
my most vivid toddlerhood memories.
I recall that Bessie held still for her until she grew
comfortable enough to take a step toward her feed. Mom and I scrambled to scoot
Sarah, pail and stool to the new position.
Wow – it’s been ages since I thought about that. Thanks,
President Taft, for the memories…
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