Reflections on the Eighth Week of Summer – “Country Scenes Blue Ribbon Dreams”

 

    Excitement radiating from their faces, giggling children milled around the goat tent Thursday. As if feeding on the children’s vibes, three kid goats circled and butted heads in a corner pen.

   Older goats stuck their heads through slats and begged, with their soft oval eyes, for pets. Does with full utters scrambled their front hooves up pen walls to remind owners it was past time for milking.

    But owners didn’t milk the goats. Thirty minutes remained before the Kid’s Goat Milking Competition at the Cochranton Community Fair.

    With her spiral notebook and ball point pen, a thirteen-year-old 4-H’er approached each child. “Are you milking a goat?”

    Two goat owners, a hefty fifty-something man and a wiry white-haired man, carried a milking stand, a platform with movable slats in a frame on one end to secure a goat’s head over a feed bucket. The older man cried Ouch, dropped his end, and grabbed his right elbow.

    People in the tent gasped.

    “My elbow acts funny at times,” he said rubbing the offending joint.

    Another goat owner lifted the dropped end. “Let me carry your side while that elbow calms down.”

    Recorder 4-H’er took the list of milkers to her mom. Bending their heads over the list, Mom said, “Match the children by ages.”

    Recorder drew lines, and Mom called, “Who has a doe ready to milk? We need at least two.”

    “I have one.”

    “Darn. I should have taken the kids out of the pen. They already drank the milk.”

    “I’ve got three ready.”

    At 7:00 p.m. a black doe and a brown doe stood on the milking stands with their heads secured in the slats as if locked in pillories. Distracted by the grains in their food bucket, the does munched. Children and parents gathered in a semi-circle. Hefty Handler and Wiry Handler stepped beside the goats.

    “I guess we’re ready,” Hefty said and turned to Recorder. “Who’s first on the list.”

    Before she could answer, a blond wearing sun glasses, silver hoop earrings, and purple nail polish burst through the crowd. Ms. Blond pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Where’s the milking competition?”

   “Right here,” Hefty said.

    “How do we sign up?”

    Hefty stretched his arm toward Recorder. “Give us the child’s name and age.”

    “I have six.” Ms. Blond listed names and ages.

    Recorder scribbled.

    Mom pointed directions to redraw lines on the page.

    The competition started with the two youngest children. Ms. Blond’s four-year-old daughter stood by the black goat with Wiry for her coach.

    A five-year-old boy approached the brown goat.

    Hefty gave him a wide smile. “Have you ever milked a goat before?”

    With arms tight against his sides, the boy shook his head and the top of his body.

    “Well, grab here—” Hefty put his hand on the utter a quarter inch above the teat.

    “—pinch to close off the milk—” He squeezed.

    “—and pull down.” Milk squirted into a shot glass. “You try.”

    The boy slowly reached for the teat and squeezed. No milk.

    “You’ve got to pinch like you're making a shape with a balloon.”

    The boy squeezed again. Still no milk.

    After five minutes, Hefty put his hand over the boy’s hand, and milk squirted. “Great,” Hefty said. He squeezed a half inch of milk into the glass. “This will give you a start.”

    Since both children had squirted milk at least once, Recorder quietly said, “Go ahead,” and touched her phone screen to start the timer.

    Whether the children heard or not, they kept pulling.

Ms. Blond and the little boy’s father coached along with the goat handlers.

    Thirty seconds later the timer rang, and the handlers held up the shot glasses for all to see. The girl’s half full glass won.

    Older children crouched to reach the utters.

    In the second set the boy with Hefty managed to fill a third of the shot glass. The timer rang. The boy set the shot glass on the platform, stood, and bumped the glass. All the milk emptied onto his jacket.

    His friend yelled, “Now you have a souvenir from the fair.”

    Hefty put his hand on the milker’s shoulder. “Wash your jacket when you get home, or you’ll smell like cheese.”

    Hefty’s third milker also came in second. During the next boy’s turn, Hefty reached in and squeezed the teat five times which filled the shot glass.

    The timer rang.

    The milking girl beamed while Wiry held her three-quarters full shot glass.

    Hefty hoisted the full glass, and Wiry groaned.

    The girl frowned and slumped away.

    The boy’s family cheered as if he’d finished a marathon, but he stared at the ground.

    “It doesn’t matter,” Hefty said to Wiry. “They all get the same prize. It’s just for fun.”

    Twice more Hefty filled the glass for silent children.

In the last round with thirteen-year-old girls, Hefty’s milker filled her shot glass half way before he reached in and squeezed.

    “Hey.” She turned her scowling face to him. “I was doing that.” To the crowd she yelled, “He cheated.”

    Ms. Blond slapped her thigh and snickered.

    The crowd laughed.

    Hefty laughed too. “It’s just for fun.”

    Recorder called names of participants, and one by one silent children with lusterless faces accepted blue ribbons.

    Just for fun.