At first light on Sunday morning I crept out of the house, pulled on my rubber boots and went for a long walk around the vineyards and across the paddocks, as I always do when I visit. There is something incredibly special about being under a big morning sky, the air crisp and clean, not another human-being within cooee*. The only sound is warbling magpies.

On this cold winter morning, I greet Lily the deer,

then head out into the paddocks where the sun is just rising above the gums.

I trudge on – up the hillside and past the caves my brothers and I used to play in – spotting a fox that slinks back into his den the moment he spies me.

On to the limestone quarry…another playground that is now much deeper and steeper than I remember, where the ochre light dances and I hear the echo of ‘laughter past’.

At the top of the hill, I pause to look over this precious land, where magnificent red gums throw long morning shadows.

On the other side of the hill, beyond the vines, a mob of kangaroos jumps away as I approach.

At the shearing shed I climb the stairs as I have so many times before, bringing smoko in a basket to the shearers as a child; tea, jubilee cake and sandwiches. The smell of lanolin hangs in the air. This morning the shears are still and silent but it’s easy to conjure in my mind their constant drone, the shed a hive of activity.

The sun shines brighter as I meander through rows of vines,

and head back towards the house paddock.

It was on this very lawn, left of the white wooden fence, that I celebrated my wedding reception in a big white marquee – many moons ago. Oh, how the trees have grown and life has changed…

I throw off my boots and open the door to the smell of bacon. My brother is cooking breakfast with eggs collected this morning. Suddenly I’m famished.

As I walked through the paddocks I had a  flashback to a ‘Winter Morning in Time’, circa 1970…

A morning in time: memories and milking

My breath curls into the crisp morning air as I dig my hands deeper into my parka pockets. I am perched on a wooden railing of the milking shed, swinging my legs in my rubber boots as I watch the warm milk squirt noisily against the cold, steel bucket. It is rhythmical and comforting. The only sound apart from the milk hitting the steel is Clarabelle, a jersey cow the colour of milky espresso, munching on her half bucket of oats.

My father sits on a stump of wood, its seat worn smooth with use, hand milking with a deft proficiency that comes from years of practice. Depending on the amount of feed in the paddock, the house cow produces about a gallon and a half of milk in the morning and a gallon at night … more with the new spring grasses. The sound of milk grows duller and deeper as the bucket fills with frothy warm milk. By the time the soft morning sun caresses my hair and the last drop of milk is shaken into the bucket, I am almost in a trance-like state, hypnotised by the sound of the ritual.

The cats that live in the haystack on the mice they catch are lurking about. My father pours a little milk into their tins near the shed. They lap it up. We walk up the gentle slope of the orchard together, towards the house, milk sloshing precariously close to the rim of the bucket. Jack Frost is still lying on the grass and the winter light throws magic into the morning. We kick off our boots and enter into the warm kitchen where my Scottish grandmother is slowly stirring oatmeal over the fire with her spurtle (porridge stick). Another morning ritual.

A large bowl sits ready on the table and a strong river of milk quickly fills it, foaming and swirling. This bowl has a permanent home on the top shelf of the fridge where it sits and forms a layer of cream that begs to be skimmed off with a spoon. My father likes to eat it on bread with homemade jam. A jug is filled with the remaining milk: raw, real, full-cream milk straight from a happy, coffee-coloured cow. The cereal is on the table. It’s time for breakfast.

*Cooee! is a shout used in Australia, usually in the bush, to attract attention, find missing people, or indicate one’s own location. When done correctly – loudly and shrilly – a call of “cooee” can carry over a considerable distance. The distance one’s cooee call travels can be a matter of competitive pride. It is also known as a call for help.

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Speaking to friends about school milk recently, it seems this daily ritual divided us neatly in two camps; you either loved or hated it! It went like this…Crates of small glass bottles containing 1/3 pint of milk were delivered to classroom doors early in the morning and here they sat in the sun until recess time. On hot days the milk was already quite warm but we were not allowed to play until we had at least attempted some. There were two ways of taking your milk. Those who loved milk (mostly the boys, from memory) would first shake the bottle vigorously to distribute the thick plug of cream that sat on top, punch their thumb assertively through the tin bottle top, milk spurting, and skull it down in one go, finishing with milky moustaches and satisfied sighs.

Trying to recreate a shot of school milk in the garden with our curious cat!

Those who loathed school milk would sip ever-so-slowly through a plain white paper straw willing the bottle to empty. Sometimes a note was produced from a parent with all sorts of excuses as to why Johnny shouldn’t have his milk today, while a few creative kids slipped some Quick into the bottle to flavour it and make it more palatable. The scheme was possibly responsible for putting half of my generation off milk!

In upper primary school, my friend Craig and I were bestowed the dubious title of class ‘Milk Monitors’. Our job was to carry the crate of unopened and half-drunk bottles down to the lunch shed troughs, empty them down the drains in a sea of white, then rinse the bottles and put them back in the crate. Craig happened to be one of those boys who loved milk and I watched incredulously as he downed as much leftover milk as he could!

Did you love or hate school milk?

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