The Red Flannel Rag

She knew how each cow eventually died; and for many years, she cried about

Betsy when she died after she got into the hog feed and bloated. She used the cows to

teach my sister and me about sex and having babies.

When I was about nine years old, she told me about menstruation. Shortly after

that, she sent me along with my dad and Ole Jerse when he took her to the bull to be

bred. I saw enough of the breeding process to fill my head with curiosity. I think that

was part of her plan. When I got home, I started asking her questions.

She used her wringer washer for the next step in my education about the birds

and the bees. The drain hose lifted up and was hooked into a hole in the side of the

washer. She took the drain hose out of its hole, compared it to a penis, and showed me

how a man sticks his penis into the woman’s vagina as she put the hose back in the

storage hole. I was anxious to have more information, so I asked her, “Tell me how

babies are born.” She answered, “Not now, you’re not old enough yet.”

When I was twelve years old, she taught me about birthing babies. Hommy was

about to have a calf, so Mom took me in the chicken house; and, through the cracks in

the wallboards, we watched the calf be born. She explained every part of the process —

the birth pains, the water breaking, the calf emerging head first, and finally the releasing

and consumption of the placenta by the cow. She quickly told me humans did not eat

the placenta, and they did not lick their babies clean. That was a relief to hear.

Mom protected her cows nearly as much as she protected her children. She never

allowed Dad to get close to the barn while she was milking. She explained to me, “He

talks too loud and the cows don’t like it when he cusses. They won’t ‘let their milk down’

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