In 1967, we moved to Liverpool, N.Y., a small suburb of Syracuse. For me, it was idyllic.
There were awesome bike riding opportunities in our neighborhood, copious amounts of snow for sledding in the winter, and the freedom of being a kid.
Dad was pastoring a church of southerners in Liverpool who had found themselves graduating from college in the South, but forced to find factory management work in the North. When they first met with Dad and heard his accent, they almost cried. They actually did cry once when a church choir from North Augusta came up and sang a selection of songs, once of which was “I Wish I Were in Dixie.”
One particular week, we were having a revival and a visiting pastor was there to lead the services. In the typical Southern Baptist Church, when the revival pastor comes to visit, he eats supper with a different family every night. So this tradition was kept, and it just so happened that the Brummetts, one of our church families, invited the revival pastor and my family to dinner.
I was rather excited about this. The Brummetts lived on a dairy farm…a total alien experience for me. They also had two sons about my age who I either despised and or loved depending on the week.
As we pulled up into the driveway, my mother turned around in the car seat and started the lecture. I was eight years old and already knew it by heart.
“Behave yourselves. Don’t fight with your sister. Be quiet and eat everything on your plate. Don’t you dare say you don’t like something. Remember your manners, say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and keep your elbows off the table.” We all said “Yes, Ma’am” and jumped out of the car before she could add more rules.
Mrs. Brummett was the most countrified person I had ever met. She was from Tennessee, and her twang was amazing. She was barefoot most of the time…she hated shoes. But that night, she was wearing shoes and sat us to the table where we stared at dinner. Yes, stared.
Oddly enough, every night that week and at every single house where we dined, they had served stuffed bell peppers. And what did Mrs. Brummett serve that night? Yep, stuffed bell peppers. It was our fifth night of the stuff. But I said nothing, especially when I looked up and caught my mother’s steely gaze.
Anyway, we commenced eating, but I noticed something odd. There were no glasses on the table and no beverages. I looked around on the counter to see if maybe she forgot them, but there was nothing. I looked over at my little sister and caught tears welling up. She was a picky eater anyway and trying to choke down the stuffed peppers under mom’s watchful and threatening eye was almost too much.
My mother began to look desperate as she caught my pleading look and she realized that my little sister was about to commence wailing. So she did the unthinkable on behalf of her precious children. She committed the cardinal sin of not following Miss Manners’ rules of etiquette and gracious dining. She asked Mrs. Brummett to get us something to drink. “My girls are so used to drinking a beverage during dinner, and I would appreciate it if you could get them something,” she said, as sweet as honey.
Mrs. Brummett was startled. “Well of course. We don’t drink anything with our meals, you know, but I will be happy to get them something.” She returned with two glasses of…..milk?
Now, as die-hard sweet tea drinkers, milk was bad enough, but this stuff was downright weird. It was whitish, but there were things in it. I stared down into my glass. Was that…yes…it was…it was cow hair.
“Um, Mrs. Brummett, is this milk from your cows?” I asked.
She beamed back at me. “Yep! Milked it right before y’all come.” It had not been strained, pasteurized nor homogenized, nor any other “ized”. Yuck.
I looked up at my mom and recognized the look…you know…the mom “look”. It was the “don’t you say a word” look.
I smiled rather sickly, gathered my courage and took a gulp. It managed to go down and stay down, so I resumed eating…but not drinking.
My mother congratulated me on my heroism later that night at home. She said she was proud of me and that if I could endure that meal, I was stronger than I knew and could endure anything.
As a senior adult now, there have been a lot of times in the past when I have had to gather my courage and “drink the hairy milk.” It’s called “doing the right thing no matter how bad it is or unpopular.” It’s called being polite, using good manners, and refusing to hurt other people. That’s what creates successful, caring adults who produce successful, caring kids.
