Across The Fence: Before Barbed Wire

Dad sat comfortably on the one-legged milk stool, his capped head pressed firmly into the flank of 'Little Red' as he massaged the old cows udder.

Then, placing a galvanized bucket between his knees, he wrapped his fingers around her teats and began the rhythmic squeeze and pull that brought down the milk. The stream of milk against the buckets side drummed like the sound of a steady rain on a tin roof and brought the barn cats running.

I stood a few steps back, leaning against the smooth, stock-worn boards of the bunk behind the milking stall, my bare hands shoved deep into the denim pockets...