'I brought you the milking stool and bucket,' Aggie said. 'Mildred looks about to burst, take her into the barn first.'  'I know,' Bobby countered, but did not look at his sister.  'She'll be your first.'  'Great,' he said with a disapproving head shake knowing once he began the ritual of milking cows, the ritual passed down to him from his older sister, it would be his forever.  He didn't want to work on a farm forever.  He wanted to… 'I know it's not your favorite thing,' she said, interrupting his thoughts.  'But everyone in the family has his turn at milking.  'Yeah, but I'm the youngest.'  'Dad was the youngest.  Grandpa was the youngest.  It is what it is.'  'And what does that have to do with the price of milk stools?'  'The youngest always ends up with the farm.'  'I don't want to be a farmer.  I want to be an inventor, or a scientist, or an adventurer.' He stroked his chin as if a professor contemplating.  'You can be whatever you want to be.'  Bobby planted a foot on the wooden fencing, bent a knee against one of the boards and leaned, staring at the pasture.  'I've been reading Jules Verne.  Can you imagine being in a ship that goes underwater?'  'I like being on land, thank you very much.'  'Or how about taking a journey to the center of the earth?  I wonder what's down there.'  'I like the open sky.  Now, stop stalling.'  'Most of all, Aggie,' he said, his tone serious and intent.  'I'd like to build a time machine.'  'And just what would you do if you had a time machine?'  He grinned at her.  'Go back to a time when you milked the cows!'

Author's Statement

I am an author. And so am I. We are the writing team of Cynthia DiSciullo and William Zigmont. Proud Delawareans.

Autumn flashed brilliance over the shore of Lums Pond. Glorious colors of sharp and raw against a sky of mourning. The din was quiescently haunting. A green-necked mallard died, fallen upon a rock. Its chest heaved once then stilled. A dismayed child watched and cried, not understanding the why. The question ripened upon quivering lips, yet remained unspoken. No one explained the why. No one thought to expose truth beyond the platitudes and clichés that rose like bitter medicine spooned.

To paraphrase Frost, "I am… an awakener." Trust me, I adore creating a spontaneous laugh, a querying tilt of another's head, stimulating a passionate argument or provoking the pall of a cry. As do I.

Winslow Homer's Milking Time is perfect honesty showing a time more pure and slower where poignancy had its place.

Love of both work and readers, coupled with a belief that we have something to share allows us to become selfish within our writing.

Remember that child who watched the mallard die, who stood with questions unanswered? They became an adult. That child was me.

Now… I am an author.

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