Running Around (and Such) (11 page)

T
HE ALARM CLOCK ON
Lizzie’s nightstand jangled loudly. She groaned and rolled over to turn it off. The hands showed five o’clock. She could hear Dat moving around downstairs in the kitchen.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there, her elbows on her knees. This just isn’t right, she thought. I never in my life had to get up this early. I hate it. She could tell it was going to be a warm, sultry day, as humid as it was already. She yawned and reached for a dress in the closet.

She never brushed her teeth or combed her hair at five o’clock. What was the use? Dat didn’t care what she looked like as long as she helped milk.

And another thing—those cows. Cows were the dumbest animals on earth. They smelled bad and she was still afraid of their hooves, those big, dirty, split feet caked with a load of manure that squooshed up between the cracks in the hooves whenever they walked.

The cows had arrived almost two months earlier, but these ignorant, slow learners still did not come in from the pasture early in the morning when it was time to be milked. Usually they were at the farthest end of the pasture, lying down and chewing their cuds.

All they did was chew. You could watch a cow for hours, and she did nothing except chew, her lower lip making half circles all day long. When she did stop the constant movement, a sort of rumble came up from her throat, and she began chewing again in earnest. It was so disgusting.

Down in the kitchen, Dat was heading for the door.

“The grass is soaking wet this morning,” he called to her. “You better put on some boots so your legs and feet stay dry.”

Lizzie snorted. The hem of her dress always seemed to get soaked, and if she held it up, the dew-soaked grass slapped against her legs and water dripped down into her boots creating bigger problems. Then her bare feet slipped and slid around inside those filthy rubber boots.

This morning she headed to the meadow without any boots. Her skirt trailed behind her in the wet grass as she yelled, “Coom, Sook! Coom, Sook!” her voice scratchy with sleep.

Lizzie wondered why Dat had taught them to yell that when they gathered the cows, especially the “Sook” part. She guessed it was probably a tradition of sorts. Doddy Glick had probably called to his cows the exact same way, and his father before him.

Lizzie’s right foot slid into a warm, soft pile of cow manure. She grimaced as she stopped to wipe her foot on the wet grass. It always happened sooner or later as she stomped around in the dark yelling. She had almost gotten used to stepping in cow manure, which meant she had become a full-fledged farm girl. When her foot was clean, she lifted her head, pushed back her tousled hair, and kept on yelling.

No sign of the cows. Lizzie plodded on. Her skirt was wet and snapped against her legs. She winced as a thistle pricked the side of her leg and she stepped into another pile of cow manure.

They had to be around here somewhere, she thought. She had almost reached the edge of the field. Dat would be done with the feeding, wondering where his cows were.

“Coom, Sook!”

Then, quite suddenly, in the half-light of dawn, all sorts of shapes emerged as cows slowly rose from their comfortable positions in the grass. Cows were the most ungraceful animals, Lizzie thought as she watched. When they got up, their hindquarters stuck pointedly into the air for quite a long time until they finally got their front legs unbent and into a standing position. Then they arched their backs, while holding their tails straight out behind in the most ridiculous manner, before starting their slow shuffle to the barn.

“Get! Get! Come on, get going!” Lizzie said, starting the herd moving toward the barn. A few of the cows glared at her in the most rebellious manner, but she felt a bit of kinship with them. So … get up, cows. I had my alarm clock, and you have me to wake you up, she thought.

Dat met them at the gate, swinging it wide to let the cows through. Typical cows, they began to hurry the minute they smelled their feed.

“Where were you so long?” Dat asked. “It’s almost five-thirty.”

“The cows were at the other end of the pasture,” Lizzie said.

“You’re soaked,” Dat observed, holding up the gas lantern. “Why don’t you wear the barn boots?”

“They don’t help anything,” Lizzie said.

“They would if you’d wear them.”

Lizzie didn’t answer. She sloshed into the milkhouse to fill a black rubber bucket with warm, soapy water, yawning as she dropped in a clean cloth.

Dat was whistling, rattling chains as he tied the cows in their stalls. Lizzie wished he wasn’t so cheerful in the morning because it only made her tired and grumpy. Absentmindedly, she reached under a cow’s udder to wash it clean before a milker was attached. Dat was still whistling, but Lizzie wasn’t listening. She was thinking about her last day of vocational class only a week before.

She had been feeling a bit blue as she thought about Joe. He still hardly ever noticed her. He talked to her sometimes about baseball and school subjects, but never for very long. If he didn’t notice her more than that, this business of finding a husband was going to be a lot more difficult than she had anticipated.

The last day of school, she was leaning against the old porcelain sink—she could still remember exactly where she was—when Viola and Mandy came charging through the door, arm in arm, giggling and laughing, their eyes shining. Viola was absolutely stunning that day in a dark burgundy-colored dress that set off her long dark braids and tanned skin. Mandy was equally beautiful with her large, expressive eyes and creamy, flawless complexion.

Lizzie had tried to smile at them, but her heart sank steadily as she compared herself to them. She could still feel the panic about being unattractive and, worst of all, absolutely unpopular. She had wanted to go home and talk to Mam or Emma, whoever wasn’t busy at the time, and get them to explain this thing about God’s will for a husband again. She was never going to get a husband without some help, that was certain.

She stepped into the next stall, bent her head, and was just about to start washing the cow’s udders when the cow shifted away from her. This movement was followed by a sharp tugging on her hair. It felt as if every hair on her head was being pulled individually out of her scalp. Was the milking machine sucking up her hair?

“Ouch!” she yelled.

She backed away and turned in time to see the cow, her neck extended into a long turn, reaching out her tongue towards the top of Lizzie’s head. Lizzie jerked back. 

That cow thinks my hair is hay! she realized. She brought her fist down on the cow’s bony hip, hollering, “Stop that!”

The minute her fist contacted the hip bone, pain exploded through her hand and along her arm, all the way to her elbow. She stepped over the gutter, holding the side of her injured hand, and groaned with pain.

“What in the world is wrong with you, Lizzie?” Dat called.

“Nothing!” Lizzie shot back. She knew her face was red and contorted with the effort to keep from crying.

Lizzie marched into the milkhouse without looking right or left. She went straight to the stainless steel rinse tubs and held her bruised hand under the faucet so the warm, soothing water could wash down over it. She had never disliked anything or anybody as much as she disliked cows.

Any other animal would have been intelligent enough to know her unkempt hair was not hay. Couldn’t she smell the difference? Animals were supposed to have a keen sense of smell, weren’t they? According to the size of their nostrils, they should be able to smell a bale of hay from a great distance. They had no business slurping at someone’s head.

Lizzie hurried back to the cow stable, wiping her hand on a paper towel. She finished washing udders, carried milk into the milkhouse, and swept the aisle. Dat untied the cows, and, one by one, they backed across the gutter and made their slow, clumsy way out the door.

“Your hand feel better?” Dat asked, as she was sweeping.

“Mm-hmm.”

“What happened?”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes. Should she tell him? She shrugged.

“I just hit the cow in the wrong place and hurt my hand.”

Dat raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he started sweeping the feed aisle.

“I’m going for breakfast,” Lizzie called back as she headed out the door.

“Be right in,” Dat answered.

Lizzie slammed the back door a bit harder than necessary. Her future seemed very long and dark if herding cows was her future.

In the house, Mam was frying eggs on the big griddle, her hair combed and her covering positioned neatly on her head. Emma’s hair wasn’t combed, but she had covered it with a man’s handkerchief, which she wore to do barn chores or outside work so her coverings wouldn’t get dirty. Emma always wore her dichly or some sort of head scarf if she wasn’t wearing her covering, because she was conscientious and a good girl who wanted to do what was right. The girls were taught to cover their heads when they prayed, which included the silent prayer before and after meals.

“All done?” Mam asked, smiling at Lizzie.

“Mm-hmm.” Lizzie bent to wash her hands and face at the small sink in the kitchen.

Emma poured orange juice as Mandy came clattering down the stairs, with Jason a few steps behind her.

“Good morning!” Mam sang out.

“Good morning, Mam!” Mandy answered.

“Morning, Mam,” Jason echoed, going to stand beside her so she could reach out and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Mandy, would you please make the toast for me?”

“Sure.” Mandy hurried to do her bidding, while Lizzie stood at the sink glaring at herself in the mirror. Oh, great, another angry-looking pimple, she thought, dragging a fingernail through it. She winced as the pain moved across her forehead.

“Don’t pick your face, Lizzie,” Mandy said from her vigil at the oven door.

“I’m not!”

Mandy raised her eyebrows. But Lizzie just smoothed back her hair and sat down at the table. Lizzie couldn’t stop a huge, gaping yawn. Tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked back her tiredness.

“Boy, Lizzie, you look as if you’re about at the end of your string,” Mandy said.

“The word is
rope
, not
string
,” Lizzie growled.

“Grouch,” Mandy muttered.

“I had to milk, remember?” Lizzie hissed, stifling another yawn as she expertly flipped two fried eggs onto her plate. Mandy was always happy in the morning. She bounced out of bed, humming under her breath as she raced down the stairs to chirp a warm greeting to anyone who was happy enough to answer.

Dat looked closely at Lizzie. He wished she had a better attitude about her new job, but it seemed no matter how hard he tried to make the cow stable a pleasant place, she was always impatient, wanting to be finished with her chores before they had even started. Mandy was exactly the opposite, cheerfully helping and asking questions, learning all she could about the cows, the butterfat content of the milk, or whatever.

“Lizzie, you surprise me,” Dat said as he ate a forkful of egg and toast.

“Why?”

“I guess because you were always the tomboy with the ponies and the ridge. But you really resent milking cows.”

“Is it any wonder?” Lizzie asked sarcastically.

“Why do you say that?”

“Cows are stupid.”

Mam laughed.

“Lizzie, that’s not one bit respectful of my profession,” Dat said.

Lizzie looked up sharply, almost choking on her bite of egg. “Profession? You mean milking cows is a profession, like teaching or making furniture … or … or … stuff like that?”

“It’s a part of farming, a very important part. If it wouldn’t be for the milk we’re shipping, I don’t know how else we’d make a living.”

Lizzie had put a spoonful of fried eggs and toast in her mouth so she couldn’t answer.

She was so hungry after her morning’s work that she ate and ate without even thinking of calories or her weight. She couldn’t wait to cut a fresh piece of shoofly pie and pour a mug of steaming hot chocolate over it. Shoofly pie was one of her favorite foods. Mam’s shoofly pies were almost as good as Mommy Glick’s, with a thick brown sugar and molasses goo on the bottom and a soft crumb cake on top.

When she was finally finished eating, Lizzie pushed back her plate.

“But, Dat, you have to admit it. A cow is not nearly as pleasant as a horse. They swat you in the face with their smelly tails every chance they have. They step on your toes without even thinking about it. They … they take a
huge
slurp of your hair if they think it’s hay!” She started laughing.

“What?” Mandy squealed.

Dat started choking and sputtering, pointing a finger at Lizzie.

“So that …,” he coughed, before he resumed speaking, “so that is what happened to your head and your hand this morning, Lizzie!” He laughed so hard Mam raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, my!” Dat sighed. He was still chuckling as he told the others about how Lizzie had hopped around the aisle with a sore hand.

“When I asked her what had happened, she said ‘Nothing!’ so loudly and so angrily, I
knew
something had happened,” he said.