“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

As regular as a clock, it echoed through the early morning darkness.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

Soft and low, like a beating heart, it bounced off the walls of the small house.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

The boy woke with a start. Shivering on the cold summer porch, he pulled the quilt tighter around his neck.  Alarmed, he lay in bed, afraid to move, listening to the dark house.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

Except for the mysterious thumping, the house was quiet. No rustle of cooking. No bustle of his sisters at play, just the thump-a-thump. Curiosity overcoming his fear, he tiptoed to the door and peered into the living room. A space heater hissed and hummed, it’s faint yellow glow the only light, but that was not it. On a shelf, a clock ticked, but that was not it either.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

Bare footed and shivering he walked to the space heater to warm up. Under foot, the cold linoleum didn’t feel like the floor at home. It was the sand – no matter how often they swept, there was always sand underfoot. A little here, a little there, it came in on your shoes, on your clothes, on the dog. It blew through the window. They did the best they could to keep it out, but on a sand hill farm, it was just something with which you learned to live.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

Warm now, the boy tiptoed to the kitchen door. On the far side, the coal stove was open, an empty coal bucket lay nearby. A faint sulfur odor hung in the air – matches, someone had started the fire. A small thermos sat in the middle of the kitchen table, and a coffee pot softly percolated on the range. The heady aroma of fresh coffee quickly filled the air.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

It was close now; the boy could feel it in his feet. It came from the enclosed porch. Carefully, slowly the lad opened the front door.  A single bulb illuminated a curious machine. The device, tucked into one corner of the porch,  whirled and shook.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

That was the sound!

Next to the machine stood an old man.  He wore a dark zippered jacket with a black corduroy ball cap. In the half-light, a small orange union pin flashed against the cap. In one hand the man held a bucket which he emptied into a  large silver bowl on the top of the machine. He had not noticed the boy.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

The boy tiptoed across the rough wood floor to get closer. The device thumped and in a few moments, a steady stream of white liquid cascaded out of a nozzle and into a metal jug. From a second nozzle, a thicker white liquid spurted and dripped into a smaller jar.

“Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.”

Turning for a new bucket, the old man spotted the boy. He froze, bucket in mid air. A puzzled look crossed his face.

The boy smiled shyly, cleared his throat and shouted, “Whatcha doing, Grandpa?”

“Separating the cream,” the old man laughed.

It was his morning ritual; wake early, and milk the cows before leaving for the Allis Chalmers plant. Later, after a hard day’s work, he’d milk again. After each milking, he’d separate the cream, some he kept, the rest he sold to the creamery.

The rhythmic thump-a-thump of the separator is one of my earliest memories. Nearly six decades later, the rhythmic thumping of a clothes washer occasionally triggers my memories of those bygone days.

David L Dahl.

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