The Delaval

Inside our kitchen door there stood
a beast, I haven't seen for years.
It had a corner of its own,
where Daddy cranked to move the gears.
The beast, a sturdy DeLaval,
was of an intricate design,
made to separate rich cream.
Washing it was a job of mine.

A large steel bowl was at the top,
into which Daddy poured warm milk.
Skimmed milk ran from the lower pipe;
from top came cream as smooth as silk.
Making it work were numbered disks,
fitting snug and rotating so
as to send cream to the top pipe.
Centrifugal force made it go.

Daddy had a steady rhythm
for bringing on that flowing cream,
but sanitizing all those disks
to me was a nightmarish dream.
When Daddy finished his labor,
I had to take the disks apart
and wash them before the next use;
a job for which I had no heart.

Our well water was very hard;
soap curdled in it every time.
We used a cake of P and G,
it didn't suds, was more like slime.
Water from hand pump in the yard
had to be carried in a pail
and heated on the kitchen range.
The pail was empty without fail.

So after fetching the water
and heating it to very hot;
I'd wash the bowl and pipes. The disks,
would stick together, like as not.
Cream would make the water greasy.
I'd need to heat another pan.
Can't you see my aggravation?
Perhaps by now you'll understand

Of all the many disliked jobs
a farmer's daughter has to do,
washing up the separator,
the very worst, I tell you true.

By Joyce 6/01/02