by Ralph Moody
It wasn’t a pleasant morning. Grandfather blamed me for letting the second kettle of oatmeal burn. I was so empty I was shaking, and, by ten o’clock, the cream looked just as it did when we first started churning. Grandfather had tried putting cold water and warm water and soda and vinegar into it, but nothing would make the butter come. After he’d raised Cain with me for not doing the skimming right, he let me go down to Littlehales and get Annie. Before I went, he told me, “Understand me now! This ain’t for nothing but butter making. Don’t you let me catch that girl a-messing ’round the victuals. Wastin’! Wastin’! Eggs is eighteen cents!”
I hadn’t had a chance to take the cows to pasture before we started the churning that morning. As Annie and I came up the road from her house, we saw Grandfather driving them up the lane by the orchard. He had his hands folded behind his back, was walking slowly, and Old Bess was following right behind his heels.
“Good heavens!” Annie said, when she first looked into the churn. “No wonder the butter wouldn’t make! Didn’t you know any better than to fill a churn brim full? Cream has to have room to slop and splash if the butter’s ever going to make.”
“Then we should have had butter by six o’clock this morning,” I told her. “We’ve had cream slopped and splashed all over the kitchen. Grandfather even got it in his whiskers.”
It’s strange the way cream will turn to butter for a woman when it won’t for a man. All Annie did was to dip out a little cream, give the dasher a few beats, and say, “There! It’s beginning to come. Now you put some elbow grease into the churning, and we’ll have butter.”
She was as right as we’d been wrong. I could feel the difference when I first took hold of the dasher and, within a few minutes, there was a big lump of butter sloshing around in the churn. I had never thought I liked buttermilk, but I drank more than a quart of it while Annie was kneading the lump on the butter board. Bright yellow flakes floated thick on the top of the glass, and it left my mouth feeling clean and tart.
Annie had started me churning on the second batch of butter when Grandfather came in through the summer kitchen. “Gorry sakes alive!” he sang out, when he saw Annie working the big yellow lump on the board. “Gorry sakes, Annie girl, how’d you fetch it so quick?”
I was afraid she’d say the same thing to Grandfather that she’d said to me, and caught my breath to try to head her off, but I didn’t have to. “Oh, you had it just about all done before I got here,” she laughed. “My! You had a lot of cream saved up, Mr. Gould. It will take us half the afternoon to get it all churned and printed.”
“Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes!” Grandfather mumbled. “Was cal’lating on fetching it off to the city this afternoon. Hmmmmm. Hmmmm. Where’s my spectacles at, Ralphie? Didn’t I see something in the paper ’bout an auction over to Topsham today? Still four empty stanchions in the tie-up, ain’t there? Cal’late I’ll have to put off taking the butter till morning.”
“Are you going bright and early?” I asked, as I passed him his glasses.
“Crack o’dawn! Cal’late to be on the road afore sunup!”
“Then do you want me to pick some of the sweet apples for you to take along?”
“By fire! Like to skipped my mind! Pick all you can of ’em, Ralphie. There’s bushel baskets in the carriage-house attic. Gorry sakes! Ought to fetch fifty, sixty cents a bushel this season of the year.”
Grandfather stood peering at the paper for a few minutes, then muttered, “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. Ain’t going to be no milk cows to this auction. Oh, well, what’s the odds? Cal’late I might as well attend it anyways. Might happen I could stir up a good trade for another day.” A few minutes later, he drove Old Nell out of the dooryard.
The sound of the wheels had hardly died away before Annie called from the pantry. “I’ll have this batch all printed out in a few minutes, and then I’ll get some dinner started. I wonder why Mr. Gould went away without waiting for his dinner.”
The first thing that came into my head was what Grandfather had said about ’Bijah Swale going to auctions for the free victuals. The next, was what he’d said about my not letting Annie cook. I was trying to find some nice way to tell her, when I happened to remember that he hadn’t said she couldn’t cook; he’d only said not to let him catch her messing with the victuals. So I just called back, “Grandfather often goes to auctions without waiting for his dinner.” I didn’t even say anything about saving eggs when she made an omelette with six of them. But as soon as we’d eaten, I did take the swill out to the hogs.
Annie and I finished the butter by two o’clock. There was fifty-four pounds of it. When we had it all set away in the cellar to cool, she helped me pick the apples. The afternoon was about as nice as the first part of the morning had been bad. We talked about Colorado, and the high school at Lisbon Falls; and about strawberries and tomatoes and butter.
It was while we were talking about butter that I told Annie I thought Millie was working in a mill up at Lewiston. I told her that Grandfather had watched all the people coming out of the mill gates two or three times, but he’d never been able to find Millie.
“Why does he watch the gates?” Annie asked me. “Why doesn’t he go to the different mill offices? They keep payrolls in the offices, and have the names of everybody who works there written down in alphabetical order. My Aunt Susan used to keep the payroll in one of the mills. It only takes a minute or two for looking up a name, and in one afternoon, Mr. Gould could go to every office in Lewiston.”
When the sun was dipping down toward the top of the pines, Annie wanted to take some of the Gravenstein apples to the house and make a couple of pies, but of course I couldn’t let her. I had to tell her that too much green apple pie always gave me a stomach-ache, and that maybe we’d better wait until the Gravensteins were riper. Then I said that Grandfather wanted to take all the August Sweets he could while the season was still early, so we kept right on picking till it was time to go for the cows. We both went together, and we stopped by the granite outcropping to see if our squirrel was still around the big maple. We didn’t see him, and Annie didn’t notice the verse I had scratched in the stone. Once I thought I’d show it to her, but I didn’t. It seemed a little too much like bragging.
It was nearly twilight before we stopped watching for the squirrel, and Grandfather was outside the tie-up door of the barn when I drove our cows over the top of the orchard hill. When I first saw him he was waving his arms, and shouting, “Come quick, Ralphie! Come quick!”
The only thing that I could think of was that the bull had broken loose. I jumped the orchard wall, and raced toward the barn as fast as I could run. Grandfather kept shouting till I was halfway down the hill, then went to the big barn door, pushed it open a foot or so, and went in. I was so out of breath and my legs were so tired that I couldn’t jump the bars at the end of the barnyard. I crawled through them, and ran up the slope to the big door. As I pushed through the opening Grandfather had left, I saw him going out of the front doorway. “Come quick, Ralphie! Come quick!” he called. “See what I fetched you home!”
I slowed down, and my knees were rattling together as I walked the length of the barn floor. “There you be! There you be, Ralphie!” Grandfather sang out when I reached the dooryard. “Ain’t that a beauty!”
Old Nell was standing, hitched to the spring wagon, just beyond the barn doorway. Her head was hanging low, her shoulders and neck were dripping sweat, and her sides were heaving. At first, I didn’t notice the old manure spreader that was tied to the back of the wagon. Grandfather didn’t pay any attention to Nell, but grabbed my arm and led me back past her. “There! There! There you be, Ralphie!” he said as he stood back and looked at the spreader. “Ain’t scarcely nothing wrong with it—’cepting a couple of busted slats—and I made a powerful good trade on it. All-fired nigh enough scrap iron in it to fetch what I had to give for it. Cal’late it’ll save us a powerful lot of hard work. Going to have a tarnal lot of dressing to spread with a bi
g barn full of cows.”
The spreader must have been one of the first ones ever made, and it was easy to see that it hadn’t been used for years. The iron was rusted brown and scaly, the wood was weatherbeaten, and there were only a few patches of faded red paint, but I couldn’t have been happier if it had been brand new. I stepped closer, rubbed my hand along the top rail, and said, “It sure is a beauty, and I think I can fix it all right, but I wish Uncle Levi was here.”
“Cal’late he will be! Cal’late he will be, Ralphie!” Grandfather told me. “Stopped off to the depot at the Falls and writ him a telegraph. Most generally, I don’t waste money on a telegraph less’n I be in bad trouble, and Levi knows it.”
28
A Holy Place
IT WASN’T until after I’d finished milking that I told Grandfather what Annie had said about the mill payrolls. He was slicing pork for supper, but he dropped the knife, and said, “Tell me that again! Tell me that again, Ralphie!”
I was starting to strain the milk when I told him the second time, but he stopped me. “Let be! Let be!” he snapped. “Why in time and tarnation didn’t you tell me first off when I come home? Leave that tarnal milk be, and get the harness back on Old Nell. Time flies!”
“Won’t the mill offices be closed this late at night?” I asked.
“Didn’t say they wouldn’t, did I? Don’t cal’late on frittering away half the morning a-getting the wagon loaded. The butter wrapped and ready? How many apples did you pick?”
“Nine bushels,” I told him, “and there were fifty-four pounds of butter. It’s . . . ”
“Good on your head, Ralphie! Good on your head!” Grandfather sang out as he reached for his hat. “How in thunderation did ever you do so much? Gorry sakes! Ought to fetch nigh onto a twenty dollar bill! By fire, Ralphie, I and you is going into the butter business. Gorry! Won’t Millie’s eyes pop out whenst she sees the way we’re a-going? Get your hoss! Get your hoss! Cal’late on having the wagon all loaded and ready afore we set down to our victuals.”
All the way up through the orchard, while we were loading the apples, and on the way back to the barn, Grandfather kept talking about Millie and butter.
After I’d put Old Nell in her stall, I expected that we’d go to the house, but he didn’t seem to want to. For a minute or two, he stood by the spring wagon, holding the lantern up to the baskets of apples, and looking at them. Then he set the lantern down, took an apple in his hand and, as he rubbed it slowly, said, “Don’t cal’late you knowed it, Ralphie, but Millie’s been on my mind a heap of late. Being as she ain’t wed a’ready, don’t cal’late ever she will. Was I to live as long as what Father lived, she’d have a home here for a long spell to come. But the workings of the Almighty is mysterious. Ain’t no prophesying what the years will fetch. Might come about she’d need a dollar put by for a rainy day. I been cal’lating that, after the provender money was took out, I and you would share and share alike on the butter business, Ralphie, but . . . ”
As soon as Grandfather hesitated, I said, “I think Millie ought to have a share. Taking care of the milk and making the butter is about as much work as taking care of the cows and milking.”
Grandfather didn’t look up, but kept on rubbing the apple, and said, “S’posing we’d say there was ten parts to it; five for the provender, two for me, two for you, and one for Millie. How’d that strike you, Ralphie? ’Course I’d still pay Millie her two dollars a week wages, and I’d cal’late on you a-sharing in the crops that come from the dressing.”
“That would strike me fine,” I told him. “And I think you’d better have some supper and get to bed, if you’re going to make an early start in the morning.”
“Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes! Victuals like to slipped my mind,” Grandfather said quickly, and started to the house. “By fire, ain’t it going to be nice a-having Millie home again and no victuals to fret about?” He walked along with his head down and his hands behind him till we reached the summer-kitchen doorway. Then he lifted his head quickly, and said, “Don’t cal’late I’m hungry. Cal’late I’ll go off to bed, so’s to make a powerful early start, come morning.”
It took me till nearly midnight to take care of the milk, fix myself some supper, and wrap the butter. In the morning, Grandfather had to come to my room and shake me before I woke up. It was still dark, and the chimney of the lamp he carried was so smoked that I could only see his outline against its dim light. “Victuals is on the fire, Ralphie,” Grandfather said, as he rocked my shoulder back and forth. “Daylight is fast a-coming, and I cal’late to be on the road afore sunup. Give Old Nell an extra quart of provender, and put the nose bag in the wagon.”
Grandfather was dishing up the oatmeal when I came down to the kitchen. He had his new suit on, and had trimmed his beard. There were steps in it, so that his chin looked as if it had been newly shingled. “Stir your stivvers! Stir your stivvers, Ralphie!” he said while I was lighting the lantern. “Victuals is on the table, and time flies. Did you say the butter was wrapped and ready?”
Grandfather could get along with less to eat than anyone I ever knew. He’d gone to bed without a bite of supper, and he only ate a few mouthfuls of oatmeal for breakfast. I wasn’t surprised that he wanted me to eat as fast as he did, but I was surprised at his snapping, “Let be! Let be!” when I started to go down cellar for the butter. “Get to your chores! Get to your chores afore half the morning’s wasted away!” he told me. Then he went into his room and shut the door.
Whenever Grandfather had made an early start before, he had always wanted me to get everything ready. And I’d always stood by the doorstone and, as he drove out to the road, called after him to have a good trip. I couldn’t imagine why he was so anxious for me to get at my chores that morning. It wasn’t day-light yet, and before, I’d always left the chores until after he was gone.
I was still wondering about it when I went back to the barn, harnessed Old Nell, hitched her to the wagon, and led her up to the doorstone. There wasn’t a sound from Grandfather’s room when I went to the sink for the swill pails, and Nell was still standing by the summer-kitchen door when I went into the tie-up to milk. I’d milked one cow and started on another when I heard the sound of hammering. I thought one of the butter-boxes had pulled apart, or that there might be something broken about the wagon, so I went to see if Grandfather needed any help. It was nearly daylight, but there was a yellow glow from the carriage-house doorway, and the hammering sound came from that direction. I went across the yard to the doorway and looked in. At the far end of the room beyond the forge, Grandfather was kneeling in the circle of light from a lantern. His back was toward me, and I started to go toward him, but stopped and tiptoed out when I saw what he was doing. He had the broken screen door laid out, and was nailing boards across the bottom of it.
After I’d gone back to the tie-up, I heard hammering again that seemed to come from the direction of the house. I didn’t go out, but listened closely. A few minutes after the hammering stopped, I heard Grandfather shout, “Gitap! Gitap, Nell!” and there was a rattle of wheels on the stones in the driveway. When I took the milk to the house, the screen door was back on the summer kitchen. It sagged crookedly from the hinges and, instead of the sapling, there was a turn-button to hold it closed.
There wasn’t much fun in hauling rocks off the high field, now that I’d heard Grandfather tell Mr. Swale he was going to plant it back to timothy hay. I didn’t loaf, and I kept at it all day, but I didn’t hurry as much as I had before.
It was late when Grandfather came home. I had the evening chores finished, had taken care of the milk, and was sitting on the doorstone with Old Bess when he drove into the dooryard. He didn’t really drive. He just sat, hunched down on the seat. Nell was walking slowly. Her head was down, the reins were hanging loosely, and Grandfather’s hands were folded in his lap. He looked as if he were asleep, and he hardly roused when I went to meet him. All I could think of to say was, “Well, I got quite a few sto
nes hauled today.”
Grandfather’s head came up a little, but I don’t think he heard. He just looked down at me, and said in a tired voice, “She ain’t nowheres to be found, Ralphie.” Then he climbed down over the wheel and walked slowly toward the house. There was nothing I could think of to say. As I unhitched Nell from the wagon, I watched him go, as though he didn’t care whether or not he ever got there. When he reached the screen door, he opened it carefully, went in, and closed it gently behind him.
I watered Nell, put her in her stall, and fed her. Grandfather hadn’t lighted a lamp, and when I went into the house he was sitting at the kitchen table. His hat was still on, and his face was resting in his hands. He heard me, but he didn’t move. And his voice was hardly more than a whisper when he said, “Ralphie, she ain’t to be found nowheres. I been to every mill in both Lewiston and Auburn. She ain’t there, and she ain’t been there.”
Grandfather often put his hand on my shoulder, but I had never put mine on his. That night I couldn’t help it. I stood beside his chair and, though I didn’t more than half believe it, I said, “Don’t you worry, Millie will come back bye and bye. This is her home, and she loves it the same way you and I do.”
Grandfather didn’t move his head, but one hand came up and rested over mine. His voice was quavery, but there was warmth—almost joy—in it. “You do love it, don’t you, Ralphie? I seen it, Ralphie! I seen it soon’s ever you come home from Boston the last time. Your roots was a-reaching down into the soil you sprung from. I and you be a-going to fetch it back to fertile fields again.”
“Sure we are. Sure we are,” I told him, as his rough old hand patted up and down on mine.
