Sitting in the living room of the old farm house,
She wore a cotton house dress and held the butter churn between her knees.

The dasher made a sloshing sound as she moved it up and down in the old wooden churn.
The room was empty, except for a few pieces of furniture and a pot belly stove.

A little girl sat patiently by her side watching in awe as the little lady
worked on the prize which she knew would, in time, become rich, yellow butter.

Some of the contents of the wooden vessel spilled over the lid and around the wooden dasher.
Little fingers reached to take a taste of the white liquid as it splashed up onto the lid.

The little lady with the bun on the nape of her neck laughed as she knew how much the child loved her home made butter.

In the kitchen of the old frame house, there sat against the wall a large oak cabinet.
Down near the floor were two doors.
The little girl stooped to open the door that revealed an oak mold with a wheat pattern on the top.

Carefully, little fingers lifted the mold. There in all its beauty sat a round, yellow mound of butter with tiny beads of moisture glistening on its top.
She knew a reprimand would be forthcoming, but the temptation was too great.

The little hand reached out for a taste of the wonderful contents of the mold.
She knew Grandma and Mother soon would be there to find her and scold.

The farm house is gone, nowhere to be found, taken by a tornado years ago, But the memory of the house, its love and the butter churn live on.

Phyllis Ann (



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