Heavy Cream

We had just sat down to our cornbread and sweet milk when we heard the buzzing. Daddy headed out the door, and Momma followed with my brothers and me on her heels. We bent our heads to the sky, squinting in the direction of the sound.

Of course, in those days, we had all heard about Charles Lindbergh and his flight over the ocean. My best friend, Cleo, carried a picture of him that she had swiped from her daddy's collection of news clippings. The fifth-grade girls would pass it around, sighing and giggling during the lunch recess, and Cleo would try out the things she might say if she ever met the famous aviator.

The whirring, oversized bird had us all in a spell as it passed over our farm. We stared until the plane was out of sight, and I thought my eyes might never stop burning. I reached up and grabbed my daddy's hand, needing something to bring me back to earth. "That sure was something," he whispered. That was all any of us could say.

Weeks later, Miss May announced that a pilot would be making a stop near the Rogers School the next afternoon. For a dollar each he would give rides to those students who wanted to go up in his plane.

"Maxine, we have to get on that airplane!" Cleo said to me on the bus ride home.

"Sure, but . . ." My voice trailed off. Families of dirt farmers like us didn't have a penny to spare in those Depression days.

My best friend was not discouraged. "Maybe the pilot will look like Mr. Lindbergh," she said. I rolled my eyes.

When we got off the bus, I noticed my little brother Claude’s lips tilted into a crooked grin. He had been sitting behind us while we talked, and he didn’t say anything, but I knew that look. “What are you up to?” I asked.

“I know how you can both go up in that airplane.”

I knew it.

“Well?” Cleo asked.

I could see she was playing right into his hands.

“You’ll each get your dollar for the airplane.” He paused. “And you’ll owe me a dollar for the idea.”

By the time we reached the road to Cleo’s place, Claude had closed the deal, and we had our plan. When we got close to our house, I ran out to the cotton field where Daddy was weeding. I shared the news and our plan in a series of panting breaths. He leaned against his hoe, took off his hat, and wiped his brow as though he had just noticed me.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said.

Though he hadn’t actually answered my question, I threw my arms around him. He smiled, replaced his hat, and went back to work.

I found our old neighbor, Mr. Fletcher, in the next field and asked if he could help us. We were counting on the high butterfat of his Jersey cows for our plan to work. Once he agreed, I rushed to the house to get my lessons and chores finished.

At suppertime, I didn’t even taste my cornbread, though I did soak it in my milk to make up for the lack of butter. Cleo walked over, and we sat in our barn milking for an hour. When we finished, we walked over to the Fletcher place and each milked one of his cows. We carried our pails home one careful step at a time. Daddy was waiting for us outside the barn. He handed me the lantern, then kissed me on the forehead and went back inside. We poured the milk into empty cans, secured the lids, and worked together to lift them into the cold water of the stock tank.

The next morning’s chores came early. After a quick breakfast, I cleaned the dishes, swept the floor, and took the scraps to the chickens. Claude met me outside the barn with an empty five-gallon bucket in each hand. We saw Cleo coming across the field, and she joined us under the windmill. Claude helped us lift the milk cans out of the tank. I removed the lids and began skimming the cream off the top of each one. “Do you think it’s going to be enough?” Cleo asked.

We staggered to the bus stop with our half-filled buckets. The other children had already boarded by the time we arrived. The driver tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he watched us struggle to get our cargo on board. I can’t be sure, but I wonder if he didn’t try to hit every pothole and rocky corner he could find that morning.

Rather than cross the road to the schoolhouse, we headed down the block. By the time we made it to Mr. McCormick’s store, my hands were blistered from the bucket handles. Mr. McCormick looked up from the counter he was wiping. “What are you kids up to?” he asked.

“We were hoping you might like to buy five gallons of cream.”

Mr. McCormick walked around the counter. “Did your daddy send you with all this? I’ve never known him to have so much at once.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “That’s right. We usually keep it for our own butter, but he let us do all the milking last night and get the cream this morning. And Mr. Fletcher let us have some of his, too.”

“But what’ll you do for butter?”

“I’ll have to go without for a while. It’s part of the deal we made.”

“You see,” Cleo interrupted, “there’s a plane coming to the school today, and we each need a dollar to ride.”

“And another dollar for my brother,” I added.

“Oh, did he help, too?”

“Well, sort of,” I said. I was hoping I wouldn’t need to explain.

With a businessman’s tone and a grandfather’s smile, Mr. McCormick put out his hand and said, “As a matter of fact, I could use an extra stock of cream today.” The girls exchanged victorious smiles. “Say, you don’t suppose that pilot would give a ride to an old man, do you?”

“Sure!” Cleo said.

“I’m only teasing. I think I’d best keep my feet on the ground at my age and leave flying to you young ones. Besides, I just gave away my last dollar.”

Every minute of school that morning felt like forever. It was impossible to keep my attention on ordinary facts and figures knowing that something amazing was on the horizon. When Miss May finally dismissed us for our lunch recess, I was exhausted from the effort.

Suddenly, lunch was interrupted by a buzz like a million bees, and every child in the yard took off after it. Miss May called for us to wait, then she lifted her skirt and ran with us.

The plane went past the schoolyard, circled, and returned. It flew low enough that we could have jumped up and touched it, but we came to our senses and got out of the way. We flinched when the wheels bounced off the ground with a spray of dust and then let out a cheer when the bouncing gave way to a bumping roll.

When the plane finally stopped, a short, round figure stumbled out of the cockpit and peeled off his helmet to show tired eyes under bushy gray eyebrows. A cigarette clung to the corner of his mouth. “I guess not all pilots are Lindbergh,” Cleo muttered.

“My name is Lester Boyd, ma’am,” the pilot shouted at Miss May even though she was standing right next to him. “Anyone riding with me today?”

Our classmates’ faces dropped. Chasing the plane was the only thrill they could afford.

I stepped forward holding Cleo’s hand. Claude stepped beside us. I heard the murmur of the other children. The pilot looked skeptical. He hitched his thumbs in his front pockets and looked Cleo and me over.

He continued shouting. “You sure about this? I know the boy can handle it, but you girlies might want to think again. Don’t want nobody gettin’ sick in my plane.”

“Oh, yes! We have intestines of steel,” Cleo answered, matching his volume.

“Yes, sir!” I added.

“Well, give me your money and come on!”

We stepped forward holding out our money, and he handed us each a ticket in return. “This here is Miss Molly. She’s a Stinson SM-8A, a Detroiter. We’ve been all over the country together.”

He placed his foot on the step and pulled himself up. He turned back and reached a gloved hand down to help each of us into the plane. We ducked inside and crawled to the bench seat behind him. We watched as the pilot returned the helmet to his head then turned around and gave us a thumbs-up. We all returned the gesture.

When he started the engine, it was slow at first, but I could hear it picking up speed. I couldn’t see the propeller, but I imagined it spinning faster and faster as the engine grew louder. I began to understand why the pilot yelled so much. The plane jerked forward and rolled bumpily across the clearing. When we took off, I was sure my stomach was still on the ground and I hoped I could keep my promise not to get sick.

“Oh me!” I cried.

“Oh my!” Claude echoed.

“Miss Molly!” Cleo yelled.

Once the plane leveled off, I saw the world from a bird’s-eye view. It was both wonderful and sad. Seeing entire farms in one glance and looking at houses from the rooftops was amazing, but where there should have been green fields and lakes, there was nothing but dirt. It was the first time I understood the impact of those long years of drought.

We didn’t say much during the flight, though every once in a while one of us would point to a familiar landmark. We made out the Baptist and Methodist churches by their steeples and the post office by its flag. I hoped we’d fly over our farm so I could wave at my dad, but we were going the wrong direction. It’s hard to say how long we were in the air. Too soon, we were bumping our way back to the ground, testing my stomach again.

Two weeks went by before my biscuits or cornbread were softened with butter, and my oats went without cream even longer. But it was a small price to pay for that grand adventure with Miss Molly. I knew I’d remember it for the rest of my life. And if Cleo ever met Mr. Lindbergh, now they’d have something to talk about.