Life on the Farm

Grandma Minnie woke me before she woke the sun. My family had arrived the night before, after my bedtime. My dad had carried my little sisters and me into the house asleep. He had recently retired from the Navy, and had left immediately for Charleston. It was going to take about two months for him to find a job and a place for us. The rest of us got to live on the farm until he returned. I had been a little city girl in Norfolk. First grade was behind me now. I would be going to McBee Elementary later this morning. Before I could learn to tell time, I had to learn the skill of milking. I winced. “That’s life on the farm,” she said with no mercy. “Get up and come on.”

I followed her up the hill in the pasture. The heifers were in the barn, slapping their butts to get rid of flies. Apparently flies awake before dawn too. No fly swatter hung by the door. Flies of all sizes swarmed. They bit me, too. Flies are detestable. The barn was detestable too. So was this farm. The whole place stunk like manure.

Cows have difficult teats for tiny hands to squeeze. Grandma demonstrated some combination of squeezing, twisting, and pulling that led to success. She warned me to steer clear of the cow’s back leg, “It might kick you.” She went to milking her own cow, and I had to figure out the trick for myself. Then the sicknin' old cow kicked over the pail with her back leg. “Money lost,” I heard from the other side of the cow. Grandma Minnie could not deliver that milk to anyone on her way to work today. The rancid smell of clabbered milk would be here to greet me in the morning. This was not the fun I had imagined.

We carried the pails to the kitchen. Grandma sieved the milk with cheesecloth and poured it to a clean pail. That night I watched Grandma Minnie churn butter using a tall, wooden tub with a stick poking out of the top for a handle. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. I was mesmerized. This was after the sun had left the sky, never complaining. She showed my sisters and me the miracle of pale yellow butter forming at the top of the tub.

While I was in school she had picked and readied the butter beans for tomorrow’s delivery. Each day she delivered milk, butter, and butter beans from her truck en route to her job at the cotton mill. Grandma had to do too much homework in my opinion. When did she get to play? She ran a farm and worked in the sweltering mill, impressive information for a little child. Today her 30-year Hartsville Cotton Mill retirement pin is my treasure. I show off this tiny gold and blue memento with pride each time I wear my cotton sun hat.

After the cow adventure that morning, Grandma Minnie pulled off in her truck for deliveries and work. I walked down the dirt driveway to the huge tree at the road to play on the exposed roots while I waited for the school bus. My mother sent a note for the teacher. Mother could not come to register me because she had no car. Times have changed in the last fifty-two years. I wondered what my mother contributed to the farm while I was in school. I had better sense than to ask. That would be impudent. I knew the meaning of that word well. I also knew what would follow if I used it.

When I had finished my homework, I watched grandma make chicken and dumplings from scratch. She taught me to cut up squash and onions. I cried unwillingly. “Cut off the root end first, and you won’t have that problem.” The next time I cut up onions, I discovered that was true. Earlier in the afternoon, I had joined Grandma on the screened-in porch rocking and shelling the field peas that now simmered on the stove . Slimy okra topped the field peas.

I came to appreciate the okra whether it was fried or boiled. It wasn’t easy to get. My Grandma Minnie put on her long sleeve wool flannel shirt, took a knife, and let the screen door slam as she marched into the hot sun to cut the okra. I was right behind her, questioning why she had on that wool shirt. She said, "Wait. You’ll see.” I followed her into the okra patch. Then I caught on. The prickly okra plants forced me right back out of the row to watch and wait.

The steamed summer squash with onion that I had cried over occupied a stove burner. The delicious smell of frying chicken came my way. As soon as grandma placed the last leg under a paper towel on the table we all gathered for her blessing. It was the same as my father’s. "Lord, make us truly grateful for these and all other blessings. Amen." Fresh sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and biscuits under a tea towel took their places beside the fried chicken. I sat beside Grandmother.
Grandma Minnie made the best biscuits in Darlington County. She tried that night to teach me to make biscuits. “Put in some flour, some salt, some baking soda, some milk, and some Crisco. That’s all there is to it.” I listened and tried. It was useless to try to teach me, although she tried day after day. How could she possibly know the amount to add without measuring? Another day I asked her to stop and help me measure everything as she went. She agreed, but even that did not work. Some magical combination of her hands, the ingredients, and the wide, almost flat, wooden bowl made those flaky biscuits. Adding Miss Minnie’s homemade butter made them perfect. Sometimes I still try, and fail again. Maybe someday I will pull out that wooden bowl and the smell and sight of light brown flaky biscuits will greet me from the oven. I doubt it, though, since I am sixty.

That first evening Grandma Minnie made banana pudding from scratch. More mixing flour and milk, this time with sugar and butter added The main difference between making pudding and making biscuits is that the pudding process took place on the stovetop in a copper-bottomed pot with a black handle. She added and stirred, stirred and added. I remember the last ingredient was vanilla. This cooking thing was too much for me. I thought, no need for me to try to learn to cook. Grandma asked me to put a layer of Nabisco vanilla wafers in the bottom of the Pyrex bowl. Then she showed me how think to cut the bananas and place one slice on top of each cookie. Maybe this was my kind of cookin’!

Grandma Minnie poured hot, bubbling pudding over my layers. I layered more, and she poured more. I layered. She poured. We stopped when the last layer was about a half inch from the top. Grandma Minnie took out her white mixer and milk glass bowl. She whacked the egg on the edge of the sink, popped it open from the middle and wound up with all the egg whites on one the side of the shell. She poured off the egg white into a chilled bowl, turn on the beaters to full blast and whip those egg whites with sugar and a pinch of tartar. Next, she threw away the yolks. Spoonful by spoonful she filled the Pyrex bowl with this meringue and swirled the last dip to a point in the middle. Directly into the oven the pudding went to brown the top. After the meal, I ate spoonful after spoonful, warm and silky. It slid onto my tongue, then down to my happy tummy, another culinary marvel. After dinner, at the kitchen table, I watched Grandma Minnie roll up her pants leg and wipe her bare thigh with alcohol. She plunged a needle through the robber stretched over the tiny glass bottle. “How can give yourself a shot?” "You do what you have to do." I wondered if someday I would do this too and shuttered.

At sunset she and I walked up the hill hand-in-hand to round up the cows. Together we steered them into the barn. The farm didn’t seem like such a bad place anymore. As I watched Grandma Minnie run the farm alone day after day, I realized that hard work came naturally to her.and light yellow butter.