I was halfway through a final inspection before handing the keys to the real estate agent. My wife and I were leaving our home of fifty years in exchange for a small urban apartment near our kids, the cycle of life having finally caught up. Rushing through the final closet inspection, a photograph announced itself by fluttering to my feet. I stared at the faded picture. The image was blurred, as was its history; but as the memories dusted themselves off, time and place came into focus, and the past merged with the present.

There, in pale sepia, sat my grandfather, his cheek pressed against Miss Blackie’s side, his hat askew, the only protection against her nervous tail. Miss Blackie didn’t seem to mind. Why would she? She couldn’t read. And even if she could, the Goldenrod and Milkweed were just too tempting. Besides, the No Parking sign was meant for cars, not cows. Grandpa didn’t mind either, ’cause that was his milking spot, right there on that Brooklyn Street, with Blackie hitched to that sign. Neither did the passengers on the passing L train mind, looking down, their faces pressed against the windows, eyes wide and mouths agape.

The camera had captured the No-Parking sign and a passing train along with Miss Blackie and my grandfather. My memory filled in the smells and sounds. I can almost hear the rhythmic jets of steaming milk echoing against the tin pail . . .

 

Brooklyn 1947

Grandpa spoke softly as he worked—in Yiddish mostly—stories about the old country, and Miss Blackie was a good listener, quite respectful, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone else’s touch. That cow was bigoted. If any alien hands approached, she’d drift away so as to distance her udders. If they persisted, Miss Blackie wasn’t averse to performing the conga bump, sending the offender flying. Any third attempt was plain foolish, as she wasn’t shy about biting. But she loved my grandfather. Perhaps it was his voice or maybe his accent—but I’d like to think it was his stories.

My mother, never a fan of Grandpa’s farm or Miss Blackie, joked the cow was mean enough to give sour cream. Grandma was just plain sarcastic and attributed the cow’s nasty disposition to city life. She would mutter when Grandpa wasn’t around, “Blackie probably has cabin fever. Any creature would get ‘The Fever’ cooped up in that tiny shed.” I chuckled at the memory. For a month afterward, I worried my grandfather would catch “The Fever” and get “The Mean Streak,” too, but he never did, so I convinced myself that The Fever favored cows. Funny how words can play in a kid’s imagination.

Two stray cats, who pretended they were pets, always appeared at milking time. They’d rub back and forth against my grandfather’s legs until he acknowledged them. Then they’d sweet talk him; they always had a lot to say—mouthy, he called them. But he always gave them a few squirts in a discarded tuna fish can. Said it was their pay for keeping down the rats.

Nobody but my grandfather and I called the place a farm. My grandmother called it a dirty patch of weeds the sidewalk forgot to cover and that the city should condemn it. But to me, it was a real farm and home to quite a menagerie. Miss Blackie shared the farm with chickens, goats, and two horses. One horse belonged to my Uncle Caleb, my grandfather’s older brother; the other was a renter.

Grandma always claimed the horse rental was the only moneymaker of the whole business. Even with the cheese and egg sales, the place lost money. Everyone in the family wanted my grandfather to sell it: my teenage aunt because it linked her to the old country and its ways, and my grandmother because she feared he’d overtax himself. He did work hard; most men in those days did. After toiling all day in a coat factory, my grandfather would travel to his second job of feeding the animals and milking Blackie. It was a round trip of five miles, and he walked each of them.

The farm took its toll, especially on winter nights. He’d emerge from the darkness, cheeks ruddy from the cold, carrying a shopping bag full of eggs and milk, the smell of the farm clinging to him. It was a mixture of fresh manure and earthiness I found comforting, though the rest of the family pretended to hold their noses.

My grandparents lived in a different time, one of honest labor and respect. Eisenhower was president, the Brooklyn Dodgers were king, and men wore ties and jackets even on the weekends.

However, family resistance to Grandpa’s obsession didn’t matter because my grandfather loved his farm. The barn, that’s what he called it, was where Miss Blackie and the two horses lived. Grandma called it a rusty old shed that would likely keel over if the wind changed direction. I secretly thought she might be right because, in my child’s eye, barns were supposed to be red, and Grandpa’s was made from whatever discards the streets offered, mostly rusting metal signs and old packing crates. But to me, it was “The Barn.” To call it otherwise would have hurt his feelings. I smiled to myself. I loved that farm, but then what five-year-old going on six wouldn’t?

I think my father secretly admired Grandpa’s farm, too. He would sometimes joke about Miss Blackie being tied to the No Parking sign. He would say, “Hey Pop.” He always called Grandpa pop, even though he wasn’t his real dad. He’d joke, “Hey Pop, you’d better unhitch that cow. You’re gonna get a parking ticket.” My grandfather would chuckle and squirt milk at Dad, and then they’d laugh. They were great friends—my grandpa and my dad.

I learned a lot that summer—how to make cheese, candle eggs, and tell weeds from vegetables. We saved all the weeds to feed the goats. They and the chickens were the only animals my grandfather didn’t name. He just called them goats. They were the same color and difficult to tell apart and he liked to keep things simple. Grandpa would call “GOAT!” and they’d both come running. Then he would feed them the weeds we’d picked. They loved the weeds, especially the Goldenrod.

***

During my college years, I lost touch with Uncle Caleb. Grandpa’s farm was eventually taken by the city. It was time anyway, as his aging body and the new A&P made farm life too much of a struggle.

My grandparents and Uncle Caleb are now long gone. Sadly, an apartment building now stands where the chicken coop once stood, and the passing train bears witness to nothing more extraordinary than a pickup basketball game. Gone, too, is the No-Parking sign with Miss Blackie calmly munching Goldenrod.

Time has a way of reinventing history. The ghosts of the past live again in the grandchildren of the present. I have two. I can see my grandfather’s blue eyes in my granddaughter and the love of animals in my grandson. I keep that old photograph of my grandfather, Miss Blackie, and the L train on my desk. It recently caught the attention of my three-year-old granddaughter. Pointing to the picture, she asked: “Grandpa, who’s that man?”

I reached for the photograph, gently cradling it. “Abigale, that’s your great-grandfather. His name was Abraham. You’re named after him. He had a farm in the middle of the city and a dream in a new land. He taught me how to milk a cow.”

“Grandpa, you know how to milk a cow?”

“I used to, Abby, but I don’t think I remember. It’s been a long time.”

She shrugged her shoulders, as kids often do when they wish to change the subject. Smiling, she gave me a big hug before returning her attention to her iPad. I asked her what she was looking at. Proudly holding up the screen, she pointed. There, in living color, was a bright red barn and a farmer sitting milking a black-and-white cow. Missing, though, were the No-Parking sign and elevated train. “Grandpa, do you know that butter and cheese come from cows? I’m learning about all the animals that live on a farm.”

Leslie Selbst is a freelance author who has co-authored a memoir entitled, Surviving the Storm (Kroshka Publications 1997). Under his own name, he has also published the short stories “Babushkas” (Eckleburg Review 2016) and “The Chosen People” (The Oracle Fine Arts Review 2016) and “Just Desserts” (The Corner Bar Magazine 2024).