Heavy Cream (part 2)
This story, based on a story my Grandma told, was first published in Cricket Magazine Feb 2022, Volume 59, Number 5
We had just sat down to our cornbread and sweet milk when we heard the buzzing. Daddy headed out the door, and Momma followed with my brothers and me on her heels. We bent our heads to the sky, squinting in the direction of the sound.
Of course, in those days, we had all heard about Charles Lindbergh and his flight over the ocean. My best friend, Cleo, carried a picture of him that she had swiped from her daddy’s collection of news clippings. The fifth-grade girls would pass it around, sighing and giggling during the lunch recess, and Cleo would try out the things she might say if she ever met the famous aviator.
The whirring, oversized bird had us all in a spell as it passed over our farm. We stared until the plane was out of sight and I thought my eyes might never stop burning. I reached up and grabbed my daddy’s hand, needing something to bring me back to earth. “That sure was something,” he whispered. That was all any of us could say.
Weeks later, Miss May announced that a pilot would be making a stop near the Rogers School the next afternoon. For a dollar each he would give rides to those students who wanted to go up in his plane.
“Maxine, we have to get on that airplane!” Cleo said to me on the bus ride home.
“Sure, but . . .” My voice trailed off. Families of dirt farmers didn’t have a penny to spare in those Depression days.
My best friend was undeterred. “Maybe the pilot will look like Mr. Lindbergh,” she said. I rolled my eyes.
When we got off the bus, I noticed my little brother Claude’s lips tilted into a crooked grin. He had been sitting behind us while we talked, and he didn’t say anything, but I knew that look. “What are you up to?” I asked.
“I know how you can both go up in that airplane.”
I knew it.
“Well?” Cleo asked.
I could see she was playing right into his hands.
“You’ll each get your dollar for the airplane.” He paused. “And you’ll owe me a dollar for the idea.”
By the time we reached the road to Cleo’s place, Claude closed the deal, and we had our plan. When we got close to our house, I ran out to the cotton field where Daddy was weeding. I shared the news and our plan in a series of panting breaths. He leaned against his hoe, took off his hat, and wiped his brow as though he had just noticed me.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said.
Though he hadn’t actually answered my question, I threw my arms around him. He smiled, replaced his hat, and went back to work.
I found the old bachelor, Mr. Fletcher, in the adjacent field and asked if he could help us. We were counting on the high butterfat of his Jersey cows for our plan to work. Once he agreed, I rushed to the house to get my lessons and chores finished.
At suppertime, I didn’t even taste my cornbread, though I did soak it in my milk to make up for the lack of butter. Cleo walked over, and we sat in our barn milking for an hour. When we finished, we walked over to the Fletcher place and each milked one of his cows. We carried our pails home one careful step at a time. Daddy was waiting for us outside the barn. He handed me the lantern, then kissed me on the forehead and went back inside. We poured the milk into empty cans, secured the lids, and worked together to lift them into the cold water of the stock tank.
The next morning’s chores came early. After a hasty breakfast, I cleaned the dishes, swept the floor, and took the scraps to the chickens. Claude met me outside the barn with an empty five-gallon bucket in each hand. We saw Cleo coming across the field, and she joined us under the windmill. Claude helped us lift the milk cans out of the tank. I removed the lids and began skimming the cream off the top of each one. “Do you think it’s going to be enough?” Cleo asked.