Bread & Buttermilk

There's something comforting about a rocking chair.

Mine was a wedding gift and I treasure it - it's survived countless moves, countless dogs, countless abuse. It's a bit chewed and scratched, a little banged up, but it was given with love and it's graceful curves and clean lines are still intact.

Ruby's rocking chair sat by the kitchen window where she had a clear view of the front yard and the driveway. She read in it, napped in it, told stories from it, shelled peas in it, comforted children in it, and watched the world pass by from it. It was the only piece of furniture in the kitchen and being close to the stove, was always warm. The kitchen itself seemed to smell of buttermilk and bread. We would come in from a hot summer day and take the blue and white dipper from it's hook on the wall to drink the clear well water and the kitchen and the rocking chair welcomed us. We cleaned up at the kitchen sink and Ruby served us freshly made cookies and sweet milk from the icebox, so cold it made my teeth ache. Later, when supper would be almost ready, Uncle Byron would stoke the small pot bellied stove in the dining room, take his pipe to the veranda and sit smoking and looking out toward the road. The table would be set, someone would slice a loaf of just baked bread, pitchers of milk, bowls of home grown vegetables and a dish of newly churned butter were set out. A simple grace was said before every meal expressing gratitude for the table, the day, everyone present and all the blessings God had seen fit to provide. It was a small but important tradition, one that made me feel an integral part of the family, one that made my mother feel even more like an unwelcome outsider and she often came to the table late in order to avoid it. If she was judged for this, it was never spoken of in front of the children.

Supper was a long and drawn out affair with much lively conversation. Ruby was up and down from the table every few minutes to fetch this or that or keep an eye on dessert or refill plates. When we were done, the children were exused to clear the table and begin the washing up while the adults remained seated to linger over coffee served directly off the kitchen stove, smoke, and plan the following day. Bedtime came early because on a farm the next morning always comes early. My mother, always restless, would often wander outside to be silent and alone and, we suspected, find something to drink to get her through the rustic evening. Ruby would take to her rocking chair with a basket of mending and Uncle Byron and my daddy would sit in the dining room and take turns on the well worn accordion.

It seemed to me then, as it does to me now, that everything done on the farm was a labor of love.