Granny milked the cows
along side of her man—
eight or more each day and night
to lend a helping hand.

I’ve seen her milk so many times
astride three-legged stools—
head leaned ‘gainst a Guernsey cow,
yet, she was no one’s fool.

Granny pulled her weight back then,
and did the work of ten—
there was no question ‘bout it
when measured next to men.     
                               
She used to name the critters
and treated them like kids—
petted, soothed, and curried them—
 the same as Grandpa did.
 
    You see, it was their livelihood—
they worked a humble dairy,
 pulling teats, cleaning stalls,
plus, milk cans they would carry.
 
 There were no days to squander—
their life was not their own,
no sick days, fun, nor leisure,   
or time to whine and moan.

Were no machines in those days
to make the work go fast—
they did it all by hand, you know,
like their kinfolk in the past.

The weather made no difference— 
in blizzard, rain, or hail,
 they headed for the old barn
each carrying a pail.

Gramps would walk by Granny
not saying much it seemed—
convinced the life he’d given her
was not what she had dreamed—

Forty years of hard work,
cooking, mending clothes,
having kids, and milking,
was not great, he supposed.

But I don’t think it mattered
to Granny and her kind—
they went where their men led them,
and gave it little mind.

She left her mark upon us—
we watched as kids and learned,
and I can’t thank her near enough
for all that I discerned.

My thoughts are often with her—
an example to us all,
to not complain, just do the work,
each task—both great an’ small.

 (Dedicated to my Grandma Dicus)

 Tamara Hillman
©2003