Six Inches and Homemade Milk

Tangent: Yesterday afternoon I got a hair trim. These are rare occasions for me. And I do say “trim” deliberately, as opposed to “cut.” She promised not to take more than ½ an inch. Feels like she took three. I’m trying to grow out some ill-placed layers with the intention of donating my hair. The minimum for this is 10 inches, which leaves me to decide how long I want my hair minus the 10 inches. I think another 6 inches will do! Sure will save on shampoo.

At the salon, I overheard another stylist and his customer discussing their grade school days. Specifically, they reminisced about a time before ball point pens, when they would get ink smudges all over their hands from using ink wells. My mind proceeded to thoughts on the progress of access to information versus the degradation of communication and relationships. I can sit at my desk and look up any topic on the internet but I’ve lost the art of writing letters to my Grandma.

The other night while conversing with my dad, I stumbled upon a story, and an idea. Dad started sharing about making their own pasteurized milk. Really? Didn’t even realize the corn-and-soy bean farm I knew ever had cows on it. But yes, for a time, Grandpa sold milk, too. Not much milk – only six cows (that Dad remembers). And after they stopped selling milk, “we had all the milk in the world.” So, they pasteurized their own milk on a machine that looked like a hot pad. It would heat the milk for 30 minutes, and then after cooling they would scrape the fat off the top, making “cream so thick you could spread it like butter.” “Imagine what you think of as heavy cream and triple it.” This would be served as sugar and cream sandwiches. Yes, sugar and cream sandwiches. Thank God we all got Grandma’s cholesterol genes. Butter, too, would be homemade, and sometimes cottage cheese.

To this, I responded, “Dad, I want to be a city girl but with a cow. Can I do that?” He laughed. I understand why after 20 years of city living he’s moved back to the Midwest. I understand because, as much as I am a city girl and cannot thrive in small towns, I’m still drawn to my roots. I’m still the product of generations of grain farmers, sharp as tacks but with an insatiable desire to work with their hands, toiling the land. Too bad I don’t have an ounce of green thumb in me.

My mentor encouraged me a few weeks back to dig into my history, specifically for hints of the Lord working in my family line. Like me, she came from a very non-Christian and dysfunctional family. Sometimes it’s difficult to see that the Lord has pursued me – not just in my own life time – but over generations. It feels like I’m a first bud, prone to frost and disease, and if I don’t succeed, my spiritual lineage will wither and die with me. That’s a lie in more ways than one.

For Christmas, I gave Dad a copy of NPR’s StoryCorps Listening is an Act of Love. He’s been encouraged by this to write down more memories: life on the farm, growing up in small town middle-America, etc. I’ve grown more aware that I should draw these stories out of him now, while my last living grandparent is alive. My thought is to listen to Dad’s stories and then write a letter to Grandma asking about the same thing. In the process, three generations will be involved in writing our story.

So, Grandma, tell me all about making cream and butter.