Transforming a Sunset is Hard

It’s stupid for me to cry over a stainless-steel Sunset bulk milk tank. Nevertheless, the tears are as free flowing as the milk once was into the tanker truck bound for New York City. What gives you might ask? The centerpiece of our family’s milk-house was loaded on a truck to Wisconsin on Saturday, putting an end to my legacy of being a dairy farmer. You see, “The Tank” stood as a proud monument and place holder for a possible return to milking cows, I thought might happen but never did. The stark irony of the moment is the young, 20-something dairy farmer who put the tank in, is now the 57-year-old Pop Pop busting the same wall open and taking it out. It doesn’t help that my reddened eyes are still haunted from witnessing my Grandfather William Bishopp weep over selling his precious golden Guernsey dairy cows because he couldn’t afford to go from cans to said bulk tank. Couple this with emotional memories of us selling our cows in the early 90’s when trying to raise a family on ten-dollar milk stored in a bulk tank that was unsustainable, and it’s no wonder I’m a basket-case over this piece of steel.  It really shouldn’t be this hard but it seems to be a watershed moment. I think busting out the first block of the milkhouse was the hardest. The years of utter hard work, sacrifice, spent money, disappointment, stops and starts, anger and finally acceptance, flooded into my body with every wield of the sledge. It was my metaphor for the five s

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