The sun made the circular gates gleam, he thought, like polished silver. The platform wasn’t rotating; it wouldn’t budge until the first cows were loaded at five minutes to six, but he stopped to admire, as he did every morning, it’s sterile, gleaming precision. He found his milking parlor beautiful; sometimes he was moved to tears at the sight of a full twenty-three cow load rotating ‘round its ghost-quiet motor. “Wilhelm Gevaudan is a 20th century man, and he runs a 20th century dairy farm.” Wilhelm had never actually heard that said about him or his work, but, entering his office, he imagined it was the kind of thing people thought.
He enjoyed running his farm, and contributing, in his way, to developments in farming equipment and agricultural science. His rotating dairy parlor might be labelled an oddity by shorter-sighted farmers, but it made him a member of the scientific community. That was meaningful, that was substantive. He knew that his colleagues at the Dairy Science Conference found it (and him) a little unorthodox, but he believed that they were secretly pleased to have in him a rock of unwavering principle.
He was not an amateur, or like many of his neighbors who were farmers because their fathers had farmed, because they had been born to it. Wilhelm’s nail beds tingled, as they tended to when he grew excited, and for a panicked moment he glanced at his desk calendar, made special note of the date. Reassured, he sipped his morning chamomile and sifted through yesterday’s mail.
Was it wrong to feel pride for building as he had built? For starting as he had started, the proverbial stranger in a strange land? He didn’t listen any longer to the rumors he would once have overheard: that there was something wrong with him designing his dairy farm the way he had designed it. That locals speculated poor production volume. He had long given up his last remnants of uncertainty, which at one time, like flies on a carcass, could be scattered by the slightest wind, and would buzz inside him, cause him to clench his fists, knuckles white and bulbous, against his head. Something had calmed the swarm; he liked to think it was the smooth, circulating breeze, generated from the turning wheels of his milking parlor. The flies never flared up now. No, he never thought of it at all.