A sigh ached to escape her lips, but she bit it back. Who was she to judge Jenna’s life choices? From what she knew of Addie and Walsh, they were happy kids, and that spoke to Jenna’s abilities as a mother. Good thing, because if Betsy had to give her any wisdom about how to be a good mother—much less try to be one herself—she wouldn’t even know where to begin.
At ten on the nose, the battered gray school bus from Bankston Detention pulled up out front, and twenty teenage boys shuffled off, hormones and pent-up energy swirling around them like almost visible steam. Whether it was a group like this, a well-behaved homeschool co-op, or a YMCA camp group, Betsy knew from experience that the educational part of the field trip had to be as exciting and hands-on as possible. If she dared to talk about farming practices and environmental threats—vital concerns in the lives of dairy farmers but boring to anyone not making a living from farming—she risked mutiny.
Betsy had started the farm’s educational program a couple of years ago. It had been an expensive endeavor, renovating the barn to accommodate touring facilities, but thankfully, it took off quickly. During the school year they hosted field trips from schools all across Mobile and Baldwin Counties. In the summer most were from day camps and playgroups around the area. Bankston came every week.
As soon as the teachers had gathered the group outside the barn, Betsy positioned herself front and center and held her hand up. After a few outbursts, the boys quieted down. With that raised hand she pointed out three children who she knew needed the most attention. The first, a tall kid with linebacker shoulders and a cocky smile, sauntered to the front of the group. The other kids laughed and slapped him on the back. Catcalls echoed off the barn walls.
“What’s your name?” Betsy asked him.
“Whatever you want it to be,” he said with a smirk.
Gigi, one of the Bankston staff members whom Betsy had learned not to get on the wrong side of, clapped her hands once, hard. “Jerome!”
“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, it’s Jerome, but my boys call me the Juice.”
“Farmer Juice.” Betsy put her hands on her hips. “I like it.”
The other kids laughed and Jerome did a little jig, spinning around in a circle and bowing, much to the delight of the group. Gigi clapped her hands again.
“Welcome to Franklin Dairy,” Betsy said. “I have a lot to show you. Most of the cows have already finished their first milking of the day, but there’s plenty more work to do and I’m going to need your help with something special.”
She put her hand on Jerome’s shoulder and led him into one of the pens, then motioned for the rest of the group to follow. Jerome’s friend punched him on the shoulder. “Boy, get ready! You gonna be pulling on some . . .” He cut his eyes to Betsy. A sly grin crossed his face.
Betsy willed herself not to smile. “Teats. They’re called teats.”
“No, sir, I’m not.” Jerome turned to Betsy. “I’m not putting my hands on those . . . things.” He peered into the barn where a pregnant Holstein was undergoing a routine checkup. “That’s just dirty. And wrong.”
“They’re not dirty. That’s how the milk comes out. You like cold milk with your cookies?”
Jerome and his friend nodded.
“Cheese?”
Nodded again.
“Yogurt? Ice cream? Cake? None of that can be made without milk. Or if it is, it’s not very good.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But don’t tell the anti-milk crusaders I said that.”
The kids looked confused, but it squeezed a laugh out of Gigi.
“But no, Farmer Juice, that’s not what I need your help with. I need help with this.”
In the side pen was a calf, only six weeks old and cute as a puppy.
“I need you to feed her.” Betsy handed Jerome a bottle Ty had already prepared. It looked like a regular baby bottle, only bigger.
Bankston often sent the hardest-to-crack kids to the farm because of the bottle feeding. In some mysterious way, the gentle, nurturing act did something to the kids. Sure, they walked through the viewing room and learned how dairy farming contributed to their daily life, but it was the bottle feeding they loved. Anytime Ty had a new calf on the farm, Bankston was the first group Betsy called. They always scheduled a trip and brought the roughest and toughest of their kids.
These kids—Jerome, his friend, and the others—passed the bottle back and forth between them, wiping the calf’s chin when milk bubbled out and smoothing the hair on her back and head. It seemed the act of taking care of another small life calmed them, soothed their agitation and restlessness. By the time they piled on the bus an hour later, all the kids high-fived her, and a few gave her hugs.
“Can we come see her again?” Jerome asked, one hand on the bus door. “Maybe when she’s a little bigger. Or if another baby cow comes along.”
“I’m sure there will be more calves, but you know what? I hope the next time I call Bankston, they tell me Farmer Juice has moved out and is living his life, working hard at school, and doing well.”
Jerome smiled and pulled himself up the steps of the bus. Gigi was the last to step onto the bus. “You have kids?” she asked.
Betsy raised her eyebrows and shook her head no. They’d never talked about anything more personal than what percentage of fat they liked in their milk—Gigi skim, Betsy 2 percent.
“You planning on it?”
Betsy let out a laugh, awkward and too loud. “That’s getting a little personal, don’t you think?”
“All I’m sayin’ is, you should. Women like you are who we need raising kids in this world. Raise them up to be respectful and hardworking.” The woman nodded. “Farm kids are what you need.”
Betsy knocked on the glass door and waved at the driver.
