STARTING A COMMUNITY COW-OP or HOW TO GET MILK FROM ONE-FIFTH OF A COW

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When our family first moved from the city to a little twelve-acre farm, I plunged into almost every agricultural endeavor I came across with the enthusiasm that only the truly naïve can muster. Many of these adventures ended well, some were disasters, and a few became real triumphs.

The story of the cow-op really began with a farmer down the road who still milked a few dairy cows, and sold the milk to the locals. We were delighted to find a source of fresh whole milk from cows we actually knew, and our trips to pick up milk became family outings. So we were shocked when we learned that "our" farmer had finally decided to retire, and our source of fresh milk had disappeared.

There were four other families in our little community who also were urban transplants. We'd come to form great friendships. We shared gardens and work projects, kids and animals, advice and commiseration, and we'd all been customers of the now-defunct dairy. We gathered one evening for a potluck and decided that we couldn't do without our fresh milk. And from that evening the cow-op was born.

The first and most obvious challenge was that although we all loved the milk, no one stepped up to volunteer to take on the every morning, every evening, 365 days-a-year cow care. So we devised our plan: all five families would invest in a communal cow. Each family in the cow-op would take one day each week, and one weekend each month, as their milking days. We'd share expenses, and one of our group volunteered to provide barn and pasture.

This plan looked great on paper. The fact that the closest that some of us had gotten to a cow was in a petting zoo didn't faze us. However, our initial research did uncover some potential hazards. One had to do with the nature of cows.

Cows are creatures of habit. They appreciate routine. Our cow-op numbered ten adults and eleven children. It became apparent to even the most enthusiastic of us that we had to find a very mellow cow, if she were to be milked (at one time or the other) by at least ten different people. Furthermore, at least eight of these would be attempting to extract milk from a cow for the first time.

We appointed one of our group to scout out a potential cow to buy. When she found a promising candidate, she was wise enough to be somewhat vague about our plans, just cautiously inquiring into the cow's temperament and then telling the seller that more than one person would be milking her. The evening we came to look her over as she was being milked, the farmer was startled to see a crowd of about 10-12 adults and kids crowding around the stall, asking some extremely basic questions. But he was a pretty good sport, and as it turned out, so was Glo, our big black cow.

Glo turned out to be the perfect cow for a group of novices, and the cow-op soon turned into a thriving operation. Tentative beginners became expert milkers, and mornings and evenings settled into a peaceful routine. Glo's one idiosyncrasy was a refusal to come in at milking time, instead she would generally be found under her favorite tree at the farthest end of the pasture. She would watch impassively as we trudged across the field, ignoring the bucket of grain we used to try to coax her in. Instead she would stand unmoving until we walked around and behind her. Then with a long bovine sigh she would slowly sway her way back and forth to the barn.

Each weekly milking day yielded ample milk for our families…from two to four gallons. Extra milk and milk from the weekend was stored in a refrigerator by the back door, and there were always neighbors in line to buy the surplus. Generally, revenue from the extra milk covered Glo's feed and incidental expenses, and each year there was a calf, which covered the cost of many of the other incidentals and the annual cow-op party and barn dance.

Now that I'm once again a city dweller, I sometimes think back on the cow-op as one of our most successful rural endeavors. None of the members were obsessive accountants, so I can't say exactly if that fresh raw milk penciled out. And it's hard to put a price on the intangibles…like resting your cheek against the warm flank of a cow and listening to the swishing sound of milk as it hits your pail. Or opening your refrigerator and spooning thick sweet cream from the top of a jar of milk and pouring it over raspberries fresh from your garden.

So if you are fortunate enough to have the most important basics…a compatible group of friends, a shelter and some pasture, enough time to devote one morning and evening a week to milking, and a memorable, personable cow, go for it. The economics will more or less work out.

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