While driving on a side road one evening my route took me past this white barn. I looked up and noticed that a small door to the hayloft was open. This image took me back to summer trips to a dairy farm in central Wisconsin. The owners, Wolfgang and Bev and their children, were friends of my parents. Summer afternoons in the hayloft were spent daydreaming, discussing what we'd be when we grew up and napping, lulled to sleep by the sweet smelling hay. In the early evening when the cows returned to the barn for milking, we'd run downstairs and watch as Wolfgang attached the silver cups to the cows udders. The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the pump kept a mesmerizing rhythm. Some of the fresh milk would be served at the dinner table, something I never acquired a taste for. But I did always look forward to the sweet cream butter, churned by hand in a large glass jar with wooden paddles that whirled round and round. I have a soft spot for dairy farms, could you tell?
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