The Milking Hour

I spent the weekend surrounded by family, milking stories.

We sat together at an indoor picnic table, waiting for the fan to oscillate in our direction, finishing off the last of the pulled pork and talking about the demise of rural America.

"It used to be you could get everything you needed in our town." What's left? "Well, there's a grocery store..." "And a funeral parlor."

This I told to my dad, who said: "Everything you need for the sustenance of life, and then your departure from it."

We all know these rural small towns are dying, and what a shame it is, but sometimes even I forget about the people who are still living and breathing this life. We forget to stop and ask them how they're holding up.

My dad's uncles are good men, hardworking men, and as they folded their hands and tilted their heads down, rounding off a story about eligible landowners' sons and marriageable farmers' daughters with a belly laugh, or puffing their cheeks at the ridiculous cost of starting a farm these days, I saw that none of their pride was veneer. They knew a thing or two about where they came from, and how much work it takes for them to still find themselves on their feet every day. Every once in a while I thought I caught them winking at me. Like we both should have known that they knew better.

I made city conversation, told them about the growing trend in farmer's markets in New York City, how everyone wants something family farmed and local. They chuckled. "Organic?" one great uncle said with a raised brow. "Not necessarily; I think local is the more important part of the equation. Reducing our use of fossil fuels and all that." "Well, I can agree with that," said the other.

That, and the fact that there are too many banks on every corner. Whether at the foundations of high rises or between the grocery store and the funeral parlor.

I listened to the taut, rugged yarns told by the now-grown children of a dairy farm, and I learned a thing or two about what "work" means. We recorded these stories: on video, with a camera, with pencil.

We learned that you shouldn't spend your whole life looking over your shoulder. That when a barn burns down, you look for a blessing. That, back in their day, girls could only ask the boys out on a leap year. That you get through marriage by keeping so busy there's no time to fight.

That "if you can't bitch, you can't farm."

I was insatiable for conversation. I shouted as many questions as I could down hearing aids, tried to temper my voice for the ones who could hear a bit better. I listened to every word, suddenly realizing how precious someone else's stories can be. I had to milk out every one I possibly can.

On the plane ride back, I read my first Wendell Berry story and thought about rural pride.

"Do you miss the country?" one great uncle asked me. "Every day." And I'm not too proud of living in the city to say so.

(I'm about to spend a whole week with more family - my family, and The Husband's family. I have to remind myself, each time there are too many voices in the room, each time I want to pull my hair out trying to get a word in edgewise - listen to them, milk out what I can. If you don't hear from me for a few days, you'll know - I'm busy listening.)

UPDATE: Maud points out two pieces on farm culture at The Sun Magazine, including this Wendell Berry interview.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.