The reporter's notebook
I’ve tried a number of times to milk cows. No luck. Rather, no milk.
I was making my first trip down to southern Idaho to court my wife. It was a 550-mile overnight drive from Potlatch, Idaho, where I worked, to Buhl, Idaho, where my future wife Dorothy lived on a farm. I left at 5 p.m. and arrived at milking time.
I was born on a farm and lived my first six years out in the country. Just one cow,...
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