I can recall, as a child, how excited I would be when I would find out we were going on a visit to my Grandparent's house. It was about an hour's drive from where we lived at the time, but it seemed to take my poor Mother an eternity to get us there. She states even now, that I used to drive her crazy saying "Are we ever going to get there?" and similar questions on the way.

I learned early on to watch for certain landmarks that would tell me we were almost there (before I learned to read road signs). The first real evidence was when we crossed a small bridge. A short distance further, I would spot some silos. When I saw them, I knew we were almost to the turnoff. As we bumped down the little dirt road to "Battenville", I could barely contain myself. The second house on the left was my Uncle Charlie's. The next house on the right was my Grandparents' house. As Mom pulled our car into the front yard, I was literally bouncing up and down in my excitement. I remember (with a little chagrin) that as soon as I could wrench my car door open, I ran pell mell to the front yard gate, yanked it open, ran up the front porch steps and flew down the hallway to the kitchen door, leaving my Mother to get my little sisters and any luggage out unassisted. I felt like a homing pigeon, flying to find "Grannie and Granpa". Most of the time, they were in the kitchen. Even now, picturing that scene in my mind's eye makes my heart beat quicker.

I have never known why I felt so safe and secure at that little farm house. I have tried to analyze my emotions down through the years, but the simplest conclusion that has come to me again and again, is somehow it was my connection to my Dad. He died when I was quite young, and I have no clear memories of him. I always knew this was the home he grew up in, and somehow I felt "connected" to him when I was there.

Anyway, there was so much to see and do when I was there. When I was quite small, I remember following my Grandmother around as she did her chores. When she milked the cows, I stood by, watching the creamy streams of milk shooting into the bottom of her bucket. It would foam up into rainbow colored bubbles, and I was very impressed she could make something so beautiful. Of course, I thought she was the bravest soul to sit that close to those big old cows. I, of course, stayed respectfully out of their way. I didn't want to give them the opportunity to step on me. Back in those days, there wasn't that much of me to begin with!

But it didn't end there. She took her bucket(s) of milk into the house where she strained it through some cheesecloth, I think. She then set it in the refrigerator to cool. Later, she would take it back out and skim off the rich cream that had risen to the top. This was put into a jar and placed back into the refrigerator along with the milk (which was placed in a separate container).

Usually while visiting in those days, I had the treat of "grits and cream" for breakfast. Yes, it was some of that wonderfully rich cream she had skimmed from the milk. I remember years later, one of my cousins and I were reminiscing about those days. She told me, "You know, I thought I could never eat grits and cream. I thought I didn't like it. But when you would come to visit and I would watch you eat it with such relish, I began to think 'Well, it must be pretty good. Debora certainly enjoys it'. One day I tried it and you know what? I have loved it ever since."

I learned from my Grandmother how to make butter. Of course, she didn't have a churn. She would put some cream in a jar with a tight fitting lid and let Granpa shake it until it turned into pretty yellow butter. Of course, we had the butter on homemade biscuits. Sometimes we would stir a little of the butter into some homemade cane syrup which we would "sop" up with the biscuits, hot from the oven. Another twist on this was stirring a little of the cream into the syrup. then eating the biscuits with it.

I developed a healthy respect for my Grandmother after watching her with the cows and how she fearlessly did what was necessary and then enjoyed the fruits of her labor.