As we walked back from the springhouse, which wasn’t scary at all with my sister along, Rusty headed out to the field.
In the cabin, I dragged the butter churn across the floor and put it beside the table. The narrow barrel stood as high as my hip and had what looked like a broom handle sticking up through a hole in the wooden lid. I opened one of the big kitchen books and read the section out loud to my sister. In between sentences I pointed to the items we’d need.
“‘This is your first endeavor making butter for your family. Once you have mastered this skill, your family will have a nutritious meal and they will owe it all to you! Here are the items you will need: raw milk, either from cow or goat…’”
“Goat?” Rebecca Lynn laughed.
I continued reading. “‘Cheesecloth (also referred to as cream cloth), and a butter churn with paddle…’”
My sister wiggled the handle.
“‘Retrieve your cream pot from where you have kept it at sixty degrees Fahrenheit for at least twelve hours. The best time to churn is in the coolness of the morning.’” I opened the crock Pete had started for me. “‘Strain cream through the cheesecloth.’”
Rebecca Lynn held up the cloth.
“‘When you can hear the cream has turned solid, take off the lid and scrape the sides of the churn to prevent waste. A wasteful kitchen is a lonely kitchen!’” I shook my head. The book should have come with a warning sticker: For Lame Asses Only. “‘Next, pour spring water into the churn. Turn the handle for two to three minutes. Pour away the excess water, then pour in fresh again. Keep turning the handle in this fashion until the milk has turned solid. It may take twenty minutes or more. Once the butter is made, place it on a board. Take the cheesecloth and placed it on top, pressing out all of the moisture. Finally, you may add salt according to pleasure.’”
“Can we do this on the porch?” Rebecca Lynn asked.
“Don’t see why not.”
After skimming the cream off the top of the crock, we poured in the milk, and together carried the churn onto the front porch. I sat on the top step and began churning with the barrel positioned between my sister and me. Sully lay on the dirt at the bottom of the steps watching us. Soon, Rusty was standing in the front yard filming us instead of out in the field. I wondered if the producers of Upside Down would appreciate his scene choices.
I pumped my arm up and down a few times and peered into the barrel. “No change.” After five minutes, my shoulder was screaming. “I know you’re dying for a turn,” I told my sister.
As Rebecca Lynn struggled to find a rhythm, a woman came walking down the dirt driveway belonging to the blue house. As she got closer, I saw that her face was nearly ebony and shiny with sweat. She wore a gray dress matching my own except mine had flowers, and a large white apron covering the front, all the way down to her shoes. On her head she wore a stark white bonnet. In her hands she carried a large basket.
Rusty ran over to her and moved the camera in on her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. I stood up and waved. She waved back and gave a wide smile as she approached our gate.
“May I?” she asked.
My sister and I nodded.
She made her way to the porch. “You folks the new family?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Brooke Decker, and this is my sister, Rebecca Lynn.”
Rebecca Lynn said, “This is our dog, Sully.”
“I’m Nanny,” the woman said. “I been asked to welcome you. From the whole Miller family.”
She handed me the basket. I lifted up the pretty cloth napkin and made out a collection of colorful pastries underneath.
“Donuts!” Rebecca Lynn shouted.
“Scones,” Nanny corrected. She put a hand on Rebecca Lynn’s arm. “Child, you can’t churn thataway. Put some man’s muscles into it or you ain’t never gonna get no butter. Like this.”
She handed me the basket and dragged the churn into the shade of the porch. Then she sat on one of the rockers, placed her hand on the top part of the stick, and rocked the chair forward and back as her hand moved the paddle handle up and down. Rusty stood on the porch taking it all in.
“You see?” Nanny said, ignoring the camera. “You be here all day if you keep a-goin’ the way you been.”
I liked Nanny right off, and not just because she was helping to churn. Her Deep South accent made me feel like I’d stepped into a time machine.
“I want to try it,” Rebecca Lynn said, taking Nanny’s place on the rocker.
“There,” Nanny said, patting my sister on the head. “You be fine. Now, in about twenty minutes you feel it get real firm, then you pour off that cream and pour in some cold water. Do that a handful of times and you be all set. You got some water ready?”
“I’ll get it,” I said. I ran into the cabin, but before I put the basket on the table, I tore off a piece of scone and nearly died with ecstasy. When I stepped onto the porch again, Nanny was churning.
“My arm got tired,” Rebecca Lynn said.
“S’alright, child. Don’t mind none.”
“Can we make cheese?”
“Oh, yeah. Farmer’s cheese is good eatin’. You got a cookbook to show you how?”
Rebecca Lynn nodded.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“About thirty,” she said, moving the wooden stick up and down with ease.
“Are you related to the Millers?”
“Lawdy, no, child! Ain’t no relation!” Her straight white teeth glowed against her dark skin as she laughed. “I be theys house slave.”
Okay, so we all had special storylines to follow, and pretending to be a backcountry girl totally sucked. But signing up to be a slave? I wondered if the producers would give her extra points for bringing us homemade scones.
“Do you live with the Millers in their house?” Rebecca Lynn asked.
“No’m. I lives in the quarters behind it. With my husband, Josiah. He works with the Millers’ horses and tends to the grounds, mostly.”
I took over the churning as Nanny leaned against the porch railing.
“What do you do up there?” I asked as I rocked back and forth the same way Nanny did. My tired fingers could sense the liquid growing firmer.
“Sweep, dust, cook…”
“Sounds like us.”
“But I also take care of them Miller children—”
“They have kids?” I asked. “How many?”
“Prudence, she be about seventeen…Herbert, he twelve…Elijah, he the youngest—”
“What’s Prudence like?” I asked, suddenly craving a girlfriend more than ever.
“Well, she rich, and she smart. She speaks the French language like they’s do in New Orleans, and plays the piano, and sings, and reads as good as a preacher.”
“Is she nice?” I asked.
A voice from far away rang out: “Nanny!”
A girl with bouncy brown curls marched down the driveway toward the cabin. Carl and his camera followed alongside. Her dress was a shiny, pale blue thing and she held it up off the dirt with both hands. It swayed back and forth like a lamp shade, because underneath the dress she wore a hoop. Beneath her sheer bonnet was a clean and shiny face that would have been pretty if it weren’t for the scowl.
“Nanny, I’ve been looking all over God’s green earth for you!” the girl said, standing on the other side of the open gate.
Nanny hurried off the porch, mumbling under her breath, “Yes, Miss Prudence, yes, ma’am…”
I told Rebecca Lynn, “Stay here. And keep churning.”
As I followed Nanny, and Rusty followed me, I heard the girl say, “You are as slow as a mule. Mama only asked you to take a basket of offerings.”
“That’s what I done, ma’am.”
“Hi,” I said, walking through the gate.
The girl looked behind me at our Leaning Tower of Logs, and then moved her eyes up and down my body. I swear she took a sniff, like she believed I was the one causing that rancid smell, even
though a person with the tiniest bit of brain would know it was chicken poop. My laughter at how silly she acted was replaced by the idea of how disgusting I must look. My appearance had been forgotten while doing the mountain of chores. But now, with another girl besides my sister to compare myself to, it hit me that I must look like a pig, or at least someone who hangs out with one. I fiddled nervously with my bonnet. I hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth in over twenty-four hours. Mud covered my boots and a brown ring decorated the bottom of my dress. Dirt was caked under my nails. My day-old mascara probably made me look like a raccoon.
“You must be the new family,” she said.
“We arrived yesterday,” I said, trying not to compare my mud-stained dress to her shiny one, or my ugly side buns to her head of curls. “I’m Brooke Decker, and over there’s my sister, Rebecca Lynn.”
“I’m Prudence Beatrice Miller. Of the Raleigh Millers. Did you get the scones? They were made from an old family recipe in London. That’s in England. They’re made with cream cheese, but you’ve probably never heard of that. Where did you say you’re from?”
“I’ve heard of cream cheese. And we’re from New Bern.”
“The port town? I think I passed by there once on the way to the Atlantic for a holiday. Equally filled to the brim with sailors and lice, isn’t it?”
“Actually,” I told her, never skipping a beat, “Raleigh wouldn’t be on the map if it wasn’t for New Bern, the original Seat of North Carolina. We chose to come out here so we could become autonomous. Oh, I’m sorry. Autonomous means alone. Independent. In case you’ve never heard the word.”
I was thrilled to see a little smile appear on Rusty’s face. I had to stop myself from offering him a fist bump.
Prudence turned to Nanny. “Well? Why are you still standing here? You’ve got bows to tie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nanny said. Carl turned his camera in her direction as she hiked up the hill.
“She’ll do anything to get out of work,” Prudence said before Nanny was barely out of earshot. “But she’s got to get my hair ribbons done before tomorrow. My father has hired a man to come and take our panoramic photographs. Have you ever heard of photographs? They are very expensive.”
“Uh, yeah, I know what photographs are.”
“Of course you do,” she said, in a voice so snotty I imagined myself pushing her to the ground and smearing mud on her perfect blue dress that matched her perfect blue house.
But before I had a chance to obey those thoughts, Rebecca Lynn shouted to me from the porch. “Brooke, my arm is dying.”
“I’ll let you get back to your churning,” Prudence said. “You will be attending church on Sunday, won’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“Of course you will. We can talk afterward at the picnic.”
“Picnic?”
“And if you ever want a break from churning butter, come up for a visit. My house is the one—”
“I know which one it is.”
Duh. There were only two houses as far as the eye could see: one built for a perfectly dressed princess to throw lavish parties in, and the other built for smelly farm girls who churned milk to make cheese for parties they’d never have.
“Very well,” Prudence said as though she were suddenly bored. “I will tell my mother I have met you, and that the Decker family is simple and pleasant.”
Even with two cameras panning us, I couldn’t help myself. “Are you freaking kidding me? You’re going to act like this for an entire summer?”
But my questions didn’t matter, because Prudence ignored them.
“See you on Sunday,” she said. “Don’t forget to wear your best.”
I didn’t have a best.
“I shall wear my green satin dress,” she added, pausing for Carl to follow before closing the gate. “The one with laced sleeves and twenty-two pearl buttons. My mother says that’s God’s favorite.”
As she strolled up the rise to her house, she flipped her curls with her fingers like she was headed to a coming-out party, her dress swaying back and forth as she moved, Carl’s camera taking in every bit of the dramatic scene.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We made butter! The milk had magically turned into a solid mass of creamy white goodness. It wasn’t yellow like our Harris Teeter margarine at home, but it was still butter, and we had made it ourselves. It wasn’t a lot, considering how much milk we used and how long it took, but a baseball chunk was better than nothing. I added some salt and let Rebecca Lynn have the first taste.
“It’s yummy!” she said, clapping her hands together.
I scooped a lump with my finger and tasted it. It was yummy. I never knew I could get so excited about butter. “Taste this, Rusty,” I said, handing him a small knife which he dipped and then ran his tongue along. He smiled and nodded, which was all I needed to know we had created a miracle.
I ran the crock out to the springhouse to keep the butter cool, making sure the lid was tightly sealed. Not once did I think about the dead movie girl in the well. Instead, with my tongue rubbing itself over my fuzzy teeth, I thought about something else entirely.
Back at the cabin, I told my sister, showing her our box of toiletries, “I’m not about to lose my teeth out here, especially on television.”
After Rusty filmed us leaning over the dirt near the back door as we brushed our teeth with dirty chalkboard toothpaste, my sister and I planned lunch and dinner, stoked the fire, and continued with our chores. Later, while Rebecca Lynn played fetch with Sully, I went to the corral and brushed Willow. I forced the brush through her matted mane and cleaned her hooves of debris.
While stroking her neck, I realized my hands were even dirtier than they’d been that morning. Black gunk was caked under my nails and around my cuticles. Disgusted, I headed back to the cabin for a piece of linen, grabbed the tiny mirror from the wooden box, bribed Rusty to stay behind with my sister—“I’ll make you a special batch of butter”—which he reluctantly agreed to, then I headed down to the creek. I dipped my hand in the chilly water and shook out a shiver. It would have to do. We had no tub, and no sink to speak of. All of our washing would have to happen here at this cold creek, or in the house using the small bucket, which would have to be filled up before bathing and dumped out after. At least I was cutting down the amount of work I’d have to do in order to get clean.
I put the tiny mirror on a tree stump and stripped down to my slip, hanging my clothes from a low branch near the stream. First, I washed my feet, which were unbelievably filthy. How on earth did dirt find its way through a pair of leather shoes and wool socks? I scrubbed my feet the best I could, careful not to rub too hard against the blisters sitting on each of my pinky toes. Next, I took the edge of the linen, soaked it, and rubbed my face. When I pulled the cloth away, it was black. I washed my legs, snagging the linen on the stubble. I felt my underarms. Bristly hairs poked through. My mom had been part Italian, so the hair on my head was naturally thick, but the hair on my body was, too. There was no BIC or Gillette razor in my box of goodies, and it was beginning to seem like I’d be spending the next four months adding up the things I should have snuck in. By the time I was done with the rag, my skin matched a plucked chicken’s. But I didn’t care. I would take a frozen clean body over a warm filthy one.
I slipped my hair out of their buns and picked up the little hand mirror, turning it at different angles, trying to see more than four inches of me at a time. I rubbed my fingers through the ends of my hair, snagging them on knots. Somehow, sand had made its way to my scalp. I bent over and dipped my hair into the water, wishing for my Moroccan Argan Oil Shampoo. I’d have settled on a thimbleful of Walmart Great Value. No wonder the girls wore bonnets in the old days—they didn’t want to die of embarrassment. Shivering, I dried myself with the flimsy linen, and redressed. As soon as my toes were tucked away inside my socks, I could feel the griminess already attacking my freshly washed feet. Sighing, I put the bonnet back on my head.
As I stared at myself in the mirror again, forcing back tears of hopelessness, a rustling from across the creek bounced along the rocks, followed by the snapping of a tree branch.
I froze.
For nearly a minute I stood there, peering into the forest, but all was silent. The rustling had stopped, and now all I heard was Rebecca Lynn calling my name.
“Brooke!” Her voice meandered down the path. “We need to make lunch!”
Tucking the mirror in my pocket, I ran back to the cabin, glancing nervously behind me into the trees across the stream, but at least feeling a little bit cleaner.
The men smelled like they’d been rolling around in cow dung all morning. Not one of them said a word until they’d wolfed down apples and baked beans and scones with homemade butter.
“You made the butter yourselves?” Pete asked.
“Yep.”
“Nanny made the scones,” Rebecca Lynn said.
“Nanny?” Dad asked, guzzling his third glass of water. He had lowered his suspenders from his shoulders, and they hung at his sides. His hair was all cockeyed from sweating under a hat all morning. In less than twenty-four hours he had morphed into a farm boy.
“Nanny is the Millers’ slave,” I said, trying not to laugh. It sounded ridiculous saying the word out loud.
Rebecca Lynn said, “She helped us churn the butter.”
“She shouldn’t be doing your chores,” Pete said. “Not if she works for another family.”
“We did our own chores,” I told Cow Patty Pete. The list of things I’d done so far could wrap around the earth, and it was barely noon. My hands were raw, my feet were throbbing, and I had wet greasy hair tucked up under a bonnet that felt like a diaper. We had kept the fire going, made sure fresh water was available, and had just made a fine lunch for a bunch of cowpokes who smelled like old wet tennis shoes. I didn’t need the leader of the pack accusing me of laziness. “Nanny just showed us a better way to churn. So you all could have some real butter.”
Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town Page 9
