Judith Sutherland

When my parents began milking in a rented parlor in the early 1960s, it was with heavy Surge milkers. Dairy farmers in that era were paid approximately $3 per 100 pounds of milk, or about 36 cents a gallon.

The building blocks of a life sometimes fall to us through the friendships we cultivate. In the 1950s, the kind and knowledgeable neighbor to my parents, Rosemarie McClure, would sometimes walk through the pasture after finishing her morning milking and chores to visit my mother. By 1956, Mom was often alone with three little girls, two of them toddlers, and a newborn baby. Rosemarie, who carried regret over never having children, enjoyed holding the baby and watching the toddlers play. She listened when Mom expressed concern over the newborn’s skin issues.

In this world in which nearly everything changes and fades away, it is uplifting to rally around traditions that stand the test of time. Sometimes the thrill manages to exceed anything we could possibly dream up.

“Son, a man’s character is like his house. If he tears boards off his house and burns them to keep himself warm and comfortable, his house soon becomes a ruin. If he tells lies to be able to do the things he shouldn’t do but wants to, his character will soon become a ruin. A man with a ruined character is a shame on the face of the earth.”

Too busy to read, let alone consider writing, I find myself wishing today’s oldest farmers could find the time to share childhood stories.

“The irrigation fight broke out soon after we got our cows. July was hot, the creek was low, and there was only half a head of water coming through the ditch…each ranch, all the way down (Bear Creek) had rights to so many running square inches of water. Unless the creek was very low, there was enough for everyone to take his full measure.”

As Colorado farmers worked through drought and water issues in the early 1900s, an 8-year-old boy named Ralph Moody was living it alongside his father.

A few months ago, I received the pleasant surprise of a message from a fellow who had gone to school with my daughter. I had lost track of where Jordan Martin had ended up, and it was wonderful to read a nice note from him.

Discover the power of letting go, embracing life's craziness, and finding quiet perspective in the non-judgmental space of the barn.

My childhood was common as dirt in every possible way, and I always figured every kid lived as we did.