Milk Farm

A Story in Two Part Harmony

This needs no introduction .  Even if you never stopped at the Milk Farm or the sign, you might have driven by somewhere similar, along a highway in any state or province.  The kind of place that time passed by, and memories make it seem better than what it was.  

Now the Milk Farm was right off the Interstate. Even if we didn’t stop it was comforting to see it. welcoming all who needed a break, or wanted a piece of fried chicken. It had the sign that you could see 10 miles away, where the cow jumped over the moon  

We sometimes drove past it when we were bringing wood we had chopped for a school where it got cold. It had Native American students and we were living on land that had once been theirs so the least we could do was to bring wood when we could. It seemed like the polite thing to do.  

One day we were we were headed down the I-80, right there by the Milk Farm exit. We’d just loaded up the back of the pickup with all the wood we could carry and several cases of Vitamin D enriched pure whole milk.  It was stacked up in the back, and we were feelin’ pretty good. We were feelin’ like we had the world by the udder.

But then, right at the off-ramp, I looked in the rearview and saw these cherry-red lights flashin’ like a disco in a barnyard.

So I pulled over onto, right there on the gravel next to the Milk Farm sign and this Highway Patrolman walks up. He was one of those big fellas, looked like he’d been raised on nothing but steak and heavy cream. He looked at me, then he looked at the back of the truck, and he said:

“Son, do you know why I pulled you over?”

I said, “Officer, is it because I was movin’ as smooth as a churned butter?”

He replied,, “No, son. It’s because you got a structural hazard in the back of this vehicle. You’ve got wood and milk crates stacked six feet over the cab, and you didn’t even use a bungee cord. You’re lookin’ at a citation for ‘Unsecured Wood’ and ‘Impeding the flow of Calcium’ on a public way.”

He took out his ticket book, and he started writing. He didn’t care that it was for a good cause. He didn’t care that the Milk Farm was right there and the thought of apple pie was way better than a ticket. He just looked at me with his sunglasses obscuring his cold, pasteurized eyes and handed me a summons for the County Court.  

However, as long as we were here, we figured some pie was in order, with a tall glass of milk.  It tasted as good as I had hoped.  Unfortunately the only thing you can do now is to look at the sign and find a geocache.

Still, if something similar should ever happen to you, and you are pulled over on your way to this cache. just remember what it was like back in the day and break into this song, with feeling  

You could get anything you want at the old Milk Farm
You could get anything you want at the old Milk Farm
Walk right in its off the ramp
With the cow over the moon like a high jump champ
You could get anything you want at the old Milk Farm

I’m not saying it would work for you, but maybe —  just maybe — the officer would remember what it was like, when the Milk Farm was more than a road sign. And if that does not work, ask her if she knows about geocaching.  Or if she knows Arlo, to whom I owe an apology.  Then say the magic words, “Got Milk!!”

My Log

I remember stopping here when the Milk Farm was still there. Before the area began filling up with fast food places and outlets. There were no GPS units then. Still, I miss places like this.

I only stopped here once. It was a little too close to home or too far from where we were going, or the other way around.  It was always tantalizing.

What was a milk farm anyway? At one point you could drink all the milk you wanted for a dime. One manager predicted that they would surpass Knotts Berry Farm. But Knotts had a ghost town, old trains, gold panning and an inmate who knew your name. The Milk Farm had milk or buttermilk. Can anyone imagine drinking 5 tall glasses of buttermilk in a single setting., and still have more to go for the record.

To be honest, they also had eggs for breakfast, apple pie for desert, and anything you might want. I can’t remember what I had. I suppose that was part of a problem. Even the Nut Tree down the highway had a miniature railroad.

McDonald’s was coming. The fields around it began to be replaced by fast food and the Farm just couldn’t keep up.

Eventually all that was left was the sign, with the picture of the cow jumping over the moo. Those driving by might give it a look or ignore it. Nobody was bothered that a tall guy was looking at the site or writing something down. They were moving too fast to care.

There is a particular kind of sadness in a landmark that vanishes without a struggle. It didn’t burn down in a fit of drama; it simply thinned out, like an old man fading into his armchair until the chair is all you see.

That sign — that leaping cow — was a promise that the moon was within reach. The restaurant was a cathedral of the mundane, a place of heavy white mugs and waitresses who looked like my mother and moved with the steady, unhurried grace of the seasons.

People didn’t just eat there; they paused. They sat in booths that held the shape of a thousand travelers and for a few moments they felt at home.

The cow, frozen in her leap, is the last witness of the old world. She hangs there against the blue expanse of the sky, forever jumping over a moon that has long since set.  The neon is dead, the paint is blistered by the relentless sun, and the porcelain is chipped by the grit of a million passing tires.

But there is also a defiance. She’s still up there, suspended in mid-air, refusing to land in a world of concrete and franchises. She’s at the roadside, waiting for a traveler who remembers that the best part of the journey was the stop you didn’t have to make.