Note 14 — Chapter Nine

Curious thing about my Mother. Try as she would, butter would not churn for her. I can see her yet, standing on the flagstones outside the kitchen of our house on Sycamore Street, a plane tree throwing its mackerel shadows across her, and wielding the rod with all her might and main. The result was sure to be a fibroid, stringy mass. In later years, Mother developed a sensitiveness on this subject and sent the milk over in pails, which Davey lugged in on a rod across his shoulders, for Mattie to churn.