Growing up on a dairy farm, the cow milking was an ever-present part of my life. It was as constant as the change from darkness to day when the sunlight spilled over the mountains which formed the backdrop to our farm. Every day it happened; the cows never had a vacation. The only thing that changed was the weather—the extremes of the region creating a dramatic contrast in the conditions of our never-ending ritual.

Winter prevailed for more than half of the year. It made milking cows in our old wooden barn an endurance contest. Each January afternoon the school bus deposited us at home, and with great determination, my sister and I would resolve to get right out to the barn. The sooner we got to it, the sooner we could be finished. But, once inside the house, it was so hard to leave. If Mama had baked cinnamon rolls, or cookies, the smell was so enticing. Even the damp, clean scent of the drying laundry, hung in the stairway, created a coziness that drew us closer to the heater and slowed the donning of our chore clothes, chilled from hanging on the porch.

I pulled on layer after layer—thermal, denim, knits—whatever I thought could ward off the outdoor chill visible in the ice crystals creeping up the inside of the kitchen window. Two or three socks on each rubber-booted foot, a dishtowel tied around my hair, I stepped out the door with the house-milk bucket swinging from the crook of my arm, while my hands hid in my pockets.

The first breath of that tingling air shocked my lungs, and my nose and cheeks immediately began to chill. The sun was still hovering over the west hills, but its pale light was useless as a source of warmth. The atmosphere was thin and brittle, and the snow squeaked dryly under my feet. I walked quickly to the barn just to get under shelter and, hopefully, find some relief from the sharpness of the cold. Leaving the bucket in the milk-house, I went through the gate to fetch the herd from their shed.

Even the cows were reluctant to come out on these evenings.  I had to prod, and coax, and threaten them with the dog to roust them from the coziness of their stalls where their collective warmth and moist breath gave a foggy boost to the temperature by many degrees.

Tripping over frozen cow pies in the gathering twilight, I slipped and trudged behind them as we approached the barnyard. By now, my dad, finished with the school bus route, was on his way out similarly bundled, to refill all the feed mangers and haul loads of hay to sustain the other animals in the rest of the pastures. We exchanged signals, not wanting to open our mouths in greeting, because then the cold air went straight into our chests without any pre-warming.

If the vacuum lines weren’t blocked by ice, the milking proceeded smoothly. During the few minutes it took each cow’s milk to be extracted into the machine’s bucket, I slid my freezing hands in the warm place between her leg and udder until my fingers tingled, signifying the return of blood flow. With the outside temperature dropping to a negative twenty-five degrees, and only the wooden walls of the barn to protect us, I appreciated the living hand-warmers.

If it was storming, I had another sensory delight: dripping snow sliding off the cows as they warmed up standing in the stalls awaiting their turn. It usually landed right on the back of my neck and quickly slid down inside my coverall. Often an irritated animal would stamp her foot and flick her tail threateningly. This was a tail with a mass of ice coating each hair so that you could hear clicking as it flew through the air, straight for your face.

Finally, the two hours came to an end. I turned the last cow out to return to her straw-packed bed, washed out the milkers, and put the cans of warm milk in the cooling trough, always stepping with great care to avoid slipping on the thick sheet of ice that inevitably coated the cement floor of the milk-house. As I turned out the lights, and crossed the barnyard under the twinkling of the millions of stars shining over the brittle landscape, the glow from the house windows seemed to start the warming, knowing I’d be inside in moments, comfortable—for another ten hours, at least.

One might ask, “How could I endure this, twice a day for the whole winter?” Because I knew that winter would end, and spring would come, and so would June. June, in Star Valley, Wyoming, was worth the entire seven months of winter. Summer had truly come by then with leaves on the trees, flowers blooming, pastures lush with grass, and long, warm days.

At milking time during summer, I was almost grateful for an excuse to be outside. A refuge in the winter, in June our house was only a barrier to the sensory pleasures of the outdoors. Dressed in cut-off jeans, and a light blouse, barefoot in my rubber boots, I cheerfully whistled at the dog to accompany me up the field to call in the herd of cows. I broke off a sprig of lilacs as I went through the gate and buried my face in the sweet purple trumpets clustered along the twig. I could see the cows had wandered halfway to the mountain. They were scattered across the deep green landscape: fawn-colored Jerseys, orange and white Guernseys, and the standard black and white Holsteins, grazing in clover up to their ankles. Meadowlarks perched on the fence posts whistled their distinctive melody as a mother killdeer ran along in front of us doing the broken wing diversion, to keep us from her babies nestled in the tall grass by the ditch.

The sun was low enough in the sky to be comfortable, but the evening cooling had not begun. The heat of the day rose up from the grass and combined with the slight dust from the herd’s hooves as they trailed leisurely down the dirt road to the barnyard, sending a soft cloud shimmering aloft. Through this cloud a flock of tiny white and yellow butterflies swirled, disturbed from their resting place as the cows sauntered past.

In the barn, with the top half of the divided door open, the sunbeams stretched through the hay dust from the loft, and striped the cows as they stood, sleek and clean from living outdoors, away from the closed quarters of the sheds. Their sun-warmed hides felt soft against my arms as I crouched down to attach the milkers. Waiting for the milk, I gazed out the open door, watching lambs caper in the adjoining field. The cats, bulging from the day’s mouse hunt, twined around my ankles purring for warm milk in their dish. Since no one but cows could hear, I usually sang Rogers and Hammerstein songs. Sometimes, I brought my mother’s radio out and tuned into rock and roll before the sun went down, and the station went off the air. Time seemed suspended, the two hours hardly noticed in the balmy evening.

Even when all the clean-up was finished, and the milk-house floor swept dry, I lingered outdoors. I’d go for a ride on my horse, or play softball with my sister, or hang around on the lawn watching my mother work in her flower beds. The sun went behind the mountains, but twilight lasted for another hour. It was the best time of day to swing or pull tiny carrots from the garden. As it got darker, we’d scare ourselves with a game of “No Bears Are Out Tonight.” Only the total darkness finally forced us inside.

June was a month to be outside. January is a month to live in Southern California.