KR and I were on vacation last week. We were trying to plan two weeks in September in Maine, sitting on the granite boulders watching the tide and lobster boats, but that is now conference-paper-deadline month for me (though I haven't started writing any conference papers) and we can't quite afford the in-season rental rates. So Plan B.
At the exact time we were fishing around for a Plan B we got email from friends of ours. They had just opened a bed and breakfast in New York's Finger Lakes region and had just launched their new website. Perfect, serendipitous Plan B. So last week we drove up there to spend a couple days in a bucolic context before continuing to KR's mother's place in Massachusetts.
Within an hour of our arrival at the B&B on Sunday our friends walked us across the pasture to the Amish dairy farm next door. Elam, the farmer, was in the barn. He was a tall, thin Amish man who wore a dark blue shirt and black pants and a straw hat whose brim was barely attached, so it tipped badly to one side. He was just finishing the evening milking. His two young daughters--barefoot--were busy around the barn, but came over to show us a brand new litter of bunnies in a metal cage. The dog and kitties were interested as well.
KR introduced herself to Elam and cut right to the point: "I want to milk a cow." Elam motioned toward a nice black and white one and said, "Go ahead." KR said, "I don't know how to do it," and Elam said, "I don't know how to do it either." We all laughed. His operation is all mechanized, run on electricity from a generator. KR stepped up to the cow and gave a few tugs, and she got a few good squirts. Later she said that she had wanted to do more, but hadn't wanted to "waste the milk." We should have found her a bucket. Then she'd have something to put in her tea.
Tuesday was the ultimate vacation day: our friends went to work and Kristen and I sat on the porch of the house and read, birdwatched, waved at the passing cars and Amish buggies, and defended ourselves as we could from the barn kitten, Keeper. She liked to hunker under my chair and lash out at my ankles and calves with her claws and teeth. After her second or third attack I started calling her Little Fucker. I'm not a cat person. I find them completely resistible, which is fortunate, considering my allergy to them. I have no problems pushing them away or blocking access when they start positioning themselves to jump into my lap. And they know whose lap they are least welcome in.
We miss a lot of things from those few days--wine tastings, great meals, cow milking, chats with the innkeepers--but I miss that damned little cat as much as any of them.