When crafting my Christmas novella, The Swedish Milkmaid, I drew on my heritage of growing up around milk cows. When I was a child, my Grandma Mae showed me the indentation she has on her legs from holding the milk bucket between them. My dad grew up on a dairy farm in South Dakota and I heard countless stories of him being chased by angry Jersey bulls and how cold his fingers became while milking. My mom, as well, grew up raising and showing dairy cattle. So, I guess you can say it’s a heritage that comes from both sides of my family.

In keeping with tradition (and much to my dad’s dismay) my older sister wanted a milk cow in the WORST way when she was a kid. After much pleading, my dad relented and soon a little Jersey, named "Buttercup," arrived. Over the years, more milk cows were added to the small herd. 

Now, my sister Jes, did enjoy milking and stuck to her word on maintaining the strict routine that milk cows demand: being milked twice a day. She was also a ballerina and sometimes I would have to milk her cows in her absence. While I didn’t enjoy the chore as much as she did, I couldn’t help but see the appeal.

Is owning a milk cow unrealistically romanticized in the current “trad wife” trends?

Yes, most definitely.

Breaking a cow to milk can be a violent and difficult process, especially if they’re particularly stubborn. I remember being alarmed when my dad had to hold a panel against the cow’s side the first time she was milked, so she’d stay still and not kick everyone in the process. Going on vacation as a family or being gone overnight was almost impossible, as not many people were up for the task of "stand-in milkmaid." You can’t just skip it, when you don’t have the time; rain, snow or shine, that cow must be milked. I remember grumbling about this fact on a few occasions when it felt like we were chained at home. I also wasn’t a fan of the taste of milk and due to the great surplus we had, we were each poured a glass every morning.

*grimace*

But there is still something deeply satisfying and comforting about milking a cow by hand. Seeing the way a cow is so eager to be milked, creates an intimate bond between cow and milkmaid. The rhythmic flow of the milk and the gentle gurgle of the cow’s stomach as you lean your head against it, is truly something unique. There is also a special pride that wells up in your chest after milking a couple of gallons into a froth rimmed bucket. While it caused sore hands and back at times, it also served as a type of holy pause in the overwhelming rat-race of life. Milking was a great place to think and an even better place to pray.

I think that is why I wanted to capture a little of its beauty in book form, which is why I penned a story about a Milkmaid– a Swedish one who really lived, to to be exact. To pay homage to a time past and serve as a reminder that a simple life is something to be aimed for, not merely taken for granted. 

Have you ever milked a cow? What did you think of the process?