At the small farm I can see from my sister’s cottage up in Vermont, it’s milking time. I imagine another time, before hormones, when getting less desperate cows to the milking barn took persuasion.

Dad uses a willow switch on Red, Mom her apron on others: “Get along there, Dotty!” For that matter, when the supper bell rings, the kids won’t want to go inside any more than the cows do. Much more fun to swing in the big oak or be a horse pulling the little ones in the red wagon. There will be enough time to grow up tomorrow.