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.
“It was Rosemarie who strongly suggested trying goat milk to see if it was an allergy, and she even said, ‘I have just the perfect goat for you!’”
Rosemarie, a petite woman with a calm presence, led this dairy goat through the pasture and delivered it to Mom. Rosemarie even taught our mother how to milk it, something Mom had never done. The goat’s milk helped the baby so much that a deal was struck; Goldie the goat was added to the menagerie.
“I had to keep her tied because she loved to run and jump on everything,” Mom said. “But the little girls enjoyed that goat so much.”
Dad told such great stories about that goat, often having us laughing until we were in tears. Years later, Dad surprised his two oldest daughters and sons-in-law with a kid goat for their own toddlers. He got a good chuckle just knowing the tricks that were about to ensue. One son-in-law found no humor in it, and that goat became a pasture buddy to steers at our home place.
As the 1950s marched on, Mr. McClure began having breathing issues, and the couple spoke with my parents about renting their farm. Dad had dreamed of one day owning that incredibly soil-rich farm, which shared property lines with the one on which they were raising their family. By this time my parents had six Holsteins they were milking by hand, and Dad had just made the decision to soon leave his sales job and farm full-time, so this seemed fortuitous.
When I arrived in April of 1959, it was a happy time for this sweet family. Three big sisters adored the newborn who so rarely cried; the nickname “good little DoBee” from a TV show Romper Room, became a lifelong name. Both my parents told me many times that while others made jokes about the rough luck of having four daughters in a row, they never felt that way. “Your father, especially, would have had a dozen little girls if I would have agreed to it!” Mom said. Later, Dad would say his daughters were the best workers anyone could ever hope to know.
In late summer 1962, on the day my parents signed the papers to purchase the dairy farm, along with the McClures’ 30-head Holstein herd, black and white photographs show four little girls with big smiles, together holding a stainless steel milk pail while the McClures and our parents enjoyed the momentous event. Moving west proved helpful to Mr. McClure’s health, and my parents remained in touch with the couple through pictures, cards, letters and even a rare trip, just the two of them, to visit Prescott, Arizona.
Those renting our home place “on the shares” to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Funk, would often visit from Canton, working on projects to improve Mrs. Funk’s home place. My sister Debi recalls them repairing screen doors and other odd jobs, once cutting a large opening in what was likely an old summer kitchen at the back of our home so that Mom and Dad could use it as a garage.
“Our parents had such pride and took such good care of everything, so when the Funks showed up, as a little girl, I felt they were trespassing on our home,” my shy sister Debi recalls. Sometime in the late 1960s, the Funks were finally ready to sell the home place to my parents. It was a very happy occasion.
My parents held a great deal of respect for those who came before them. About twice a year, we made the hour-long trek to Canton to visit Mr. and Mrs. Funk, dressed in our Sunday best, returning in time to milk the cows in late afternoon with heavy Surge milkers.
It was in about 1968 that my parents installed a pipeline milking system in the parlor, happily sharing each step of progress with the McClures. My father said he would never stop appreciating those who gave him a chance to prove he was worthy, serving as a good steward to the land.
In the coming years, Dad would purchase four more farms, all close to our home. But the two farms they started with are deeply imprinted on us. Joyful times there still come to me in dreams, exploring like wild cowboys with my big sisters.
