The Red Flannel Rag

The milk business was now a three-generation operation that had both good and

bad aspects. The fact that Mom needed help with her cows reduced her personal

satisfaction. She often said: “It used to be a peaceful time— quiet — I used that time

[while milking] to pray for my son not to go to the army. When he went, I cried about

him being in Vietnam and prayed for him to return safe. I prayed for Randy when he

was sick and worked out a lot of my problems beside my old cows.” It turns out that

Randy died May 17, 1972, and Dad gave Mom the news early that morning while she was

milking. When he came back to the house, I asked him how she was doing. He said,

“She never looked up from the milk bucket.”

Mom kept her cows until she had a debilitating stroke five years ago. She had

reduced the number to two cows, and Hilda did the milking every morning and evening

with the same compensation — all the milk she needed for her family.

During late 1970’s and early 1980’s, I was in school in Texas finishing my

education and starting my teaching career. By this time, I was thirty-eight years old. On

one of my trips home from Texas, Mom asked me to go for a walk with her. As we

walked down the gravel road in front of her house, she took my hand. She remained

quiet for a little while then she started to talk to me. She said quietly, “Peg, people in the

family have always asked me why you never got married and had kids like everybody

else. For a long time I let their questions bother me. I made excuses like you hadn’t met

the right man yet or I would say, ‘She’ll come home when she’s finished her school, and

she’ll get married’.” I listen ed quietly while wondering where this little speech was

going. She continued, “I know I’ve bugged you over the years about getting married, but

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