6/29/2017

Summers in the Berkshires meant long hours with Samuel. His family ran the farm. I only spent summers there. Samuel taught me the basics of dairy farming, from sterilization processes to milking, pasteurization, homogenization and packaging. He and I spent so many hours together, by summer's end we'd be closer than brothers.



Work each day on the farm was exhausting so our nights were short. We had no time and no energy for tomfoolery. We'd sit on the porch after supper and Samuel would regale me with stories. Winters, he said, were much different than summers in the Berkshires. Nights were longer. The locals drank more. Much more. They'd get into other stuff, too. Samuel said he'd awaken some mornings to find the cattle had been bothered. These "assaults" ranged from innocent (being outfitted in masks, hats or women's undergarments) to far more perverse.



I don't believe Samuel ever mentioned cows being forced to drink alcohol. It would take a massive amount for a cow to become tipsy. Which reminds me: what you know of as "cow tipping" is just an urban legend. Our cattle could lay down and stand up with relative ease. Some slept lying down, some slept standing. It was never difficult for them to rise from the ground. The whole notion of a group of drunk kids knocking over a sleeping cow rendering it incapacitated is nonsense.



I thought about Samuel recently as I ran down Ventura Boulevard, past a pub called The Tipsy Cow. I was seeking shelter from a sudden downpour. With no destination in mind and blocks away from my vehicle I quickly doubled back and entered the establishment. I walked briskly to the restroom as I needed to dry myself from the rain.



What a mess. Paper towels strewn across the floor, both in the vicinity of the urinal and at the base of the black plastic waste basket next to it. On the opposite wall the toilet had a stray roll of tissue paper sitting quietly, aimlessly atop the tank. There were seat liners stacked on the tank as well, even though a dispenser was mounted on the wall mere inches away. In front of the toilet was a tissue paper holder, the back and sides of which were covered in rust and grime. The sink featured a two-handle widespread faucet, but the rim where the porcelain joined the wall was filthy and yellowed with another grimy substance. The commercial liquid hand soap dispenser (40oz?) with push-valve necessitated at least half a dozen pumps of soap once I noticed all that grime. "Still not clean...still not clean," I repeated to myself. What's worse, the paper towel dispenser was empty, so after thoroughly washing up I had to use the Xlerator Excel Dryer. Now, you all know how I feel about hands-free dryers: when you have to operate a lever to leave the bathroom (like this one had, which for some reason looked as if it had been jimmied or pried open) hands-free loses all of its effectiveness. Alas, I had to use my shirt to exit the bathroom. Oh, and the Air Wick scented plug-in air freshener high on the wall near the ceiling was empty. Someone had written "FT" in black Sharpie beneath the Air Wick on the wall outlet coverplate. I may never come to know the meaning of "FT."



The Samuel I knew from my summers in the Berkshires was a man of simple tastes. A real meat and potatoes guy, a nightcap for him was a cup of switchel and bowl of Peretti packed into his estate tobacco pipe. The Samuel I knew might see all the burgers on the menu at Tipsy Cow and be in heaven. Hell, he might be perfectly content being served a patty cooked well past his requested "rare-plus" temperature. I, on the other hand, was not content. The fried cheese curds were great in theory but could have used a more inventive dipping sauce than marinara. Here, I'll even offer three suggestions: honey chipotle, chorizo gravy, garam masala.



By the time I arrived home and crawled into bed, that rarest of occurrences -- an LA rainstorm -- had all but ceased. If I trained my ear I could hear the soft patter of droplets against the bedroom window. Pictures flashed in rapid succession across the backs of my eyelids. An endless blushing hillside set against a sinking sun, cows and horses feeding, the horizon blending hazily into the darkening sky, a figure moving somnambulant towards the barn, his outline growing giant in size with each closing step, stick in hand, whacking the tips off weeds and bushes. Samuel.



Time has faded (or taken) most of of my memories of those summers, but those I keep closest to my heart are still warm, and burnished by its passage.