Obviously, somebody is still milking cows night and morning. Years ago I did a feature on Memory Lane Dairy at Fordland, and I’m glad to still be drinking their milk. But they are one of but a handful of regional producer/processors.
Gone forever are my days as a junior member of the Jersey Cattle Club, the gentle Jerseys we milked by hand every night and morning of my youth, and the bucket of milk we brought to the house each evening, poured into jars and later skimmed off the heavy, golden cream for our morning coffee or blackberry cobbler topping.
Though I rue the demise of small dairy farms, I am mindful that the face of agriculture is ever changing. Previous generations lamented the decline of mule breeders and the closing of tomato canning factories.
So, too, do I rue the disappearance of little brown, doe-eyed Jerseys, golden Guernseys and all their ilk from roadside pastures — forgetting, for the present, all the work they required each and every day.
It is, after all, June, Dairy Month, and my hat’s off to the hardy few folk who still go to their barns every day of the year.
And, as I peruse the rural landscape, I think perhaps it is fitting such an observance comes on the heels of Memorial Day.