Milking Hands: A Poetic Story
Written by Joel Krammer
His hands had seen the fields.
Wrinkles were scattered deep across his palm. His lifeline seemed to be withdrawing into the shadows under the skin. And at the tips of his fingers calluses had been beaten so rough that they smoothed off any prints.
But at Conley's dairy, experience was not a consideration.
At the dairy, they told Maurice - those hands were too small, they were too small for milking.
So he told them back.
He said it didn't matter and that he could milk the cows just as good as anyone else and that he would take any job that he could get (because it was the depression, you see). He told them that he would milk for nothin'. And he did. He started milking those cows for five-hour shifts. Twice a day and he didn't get paid nothin'.
Time passed, and by then, his hands had told them.
One day a new guy came in, and Conley took the chance to bring in everyone. He told them all that they had better listen, because if anyone wanted to milk a cow, they had better be watchin' Maurice.
