A Little Family Story

My grandmother used to tell the story of how her fourth child, who later became my mom, was “born in butter”. This buttery birth occurred on a farm on the Gaspay Peninsula, a fairly remote area of Quebec. When Jeannette (yes, I’m her namesake!) awoke with the familiar signs of labor, she waited until the morning milking was done, then sent her husband across the street to his parent’s house to call the doctor on the only telephone for miles around. He was then to take the horse and sleigh (it was always cold and snowy in November, and not a snowplow around) and fetch her own mother. The ten-mile round trip would take him almost four hours.

So, she had four hours to fill. In labor. No man in the house; kids sent across to Grandma’s. Hmm. Well, Jeannette decided to do a few chores so her mom wouldn’t be overly burdened with work when she arrived. Churning the butter seemed like a good idea. Her husband had separated the cream from the morning’s milking, and carried it into the side room. Jeannette poured the thick, yellow cream into the butter churn, an elongated barrel-shaped thing that she tilted from side to side by pulling a metal bar. Slosh, slosh, slosh. With, I imagine, a few breaks for some Lamaze-type breathing at regular intervals. After a while, she decided to check on the butter’s progress, and unscrewed the wooden lid. Almost done, whew. Lid back on. Hee hee hoooo (that’s supposed to be Lamaze breathing). She took hold of the handle, pulled, and the lid flew off! Butter and buttermilk spewed out, splattering the ceiling and walls, and covering the floor. Shortly afterward came my mom.

When I was born, my mom went to a hospital in Illinois, got medicated to sleep, and woke a few hours later to be told she had another girl.

When my daughter was born, I was wide awake, being cheered on by my husband (Him: Oh my God, look at that, look at that! Me: Are you kidding, I can’t look, I’m busy here!)

Since I am FAR too young to be a grandma myself, I won’t even speculate about the birth of my future grandkids, but I bet no story will match the one of my mom being born in butter.