My favorite purple sweater is turning green. It was one of Bob’s cast-offs. It went through the laundry a few years before we were even married, and came out of a hot wash fitting me perfectly. Like most old clothing, it has far more value than my new clothing, by virtue of the fact that it’s not precious. I wear it under my meat coat on sausage day, while out running through the mud as Ula practices shifting gears on her new bike, doing yard work.
A few years back, I realized that the sweater required a commitment. My thumbs were poking through holes in the sleeves when I slipped it on; I could feel breezes blow through the tears in the armpits; the dog had pawed too many times at the front, unthreading it. The yarn it was knit from was a purple heather, and my own purple heather was the wrong tone. But my green heather yarn was pretty unobtrusive. And so, I got rid of nearly all of my sweaters, freeing myself from their maintenance requirements, and invested myself in my favorite purple sweater. It sit down a few times each year to darn it.
I was standing in the bright fluorescent lights of Cowbella’s creamery when I noticed how much the sweater was starting to change color from all the darning. Cowbella is Shannon Mason’s project. Her family operates a century dairy farm about twenty minutes away, and our farms and family members have been intertwined for as long as any of us can remember. Shannon and I are from the same generation. She and her husband moved back to the family farm not too long after Bob and I made the same decision. As part of her family farm transition plan, she persuaded her parents to work with her to ship less product on the milk truck, and instead to do value-added dairy products — butter, yogurt, kefir, bottled milk. It has taken a lot of work to build the brand, the distribution, a steady product with a paying customer base. And Shannon’s mom and dad jumped into the business with her, using their retirement to launch a new phase of their family’s farming tradition.
On the morning I’m standing in their creamery, the rain is pelting on the windows. The sun is not yet up. I’ve come for milk for the cafe. Before opening day, we need lots of practice pulling shots and steaming milk. I dashed straight out, before I even grabbed breakfast. Shannon’s mom, Gail, sees me eyeing the butter she’s kneading on the counter. I have a standing order for their deep yellow butter. They have to fill their restaurant and store accounts first. Since I have a bit more flexibility about when my orders get filled, I am able to wait. But watching her squeeze and pat that golden fat on the counter was more than I could bear on an empty stomach. I avert my gaze and head to the back room with Dave, Shannon’s dad. He handles the accounting side of the business. As I sit down at the little table to write a check, a two-pound log of butter slides in front of me.
“I just felt so bad for you,” Gail laughs. “Here’s a little for you to take home, anyway.” I’m grateful. It takes a great deal of restraint not to tear open the log and just eat it like a candy bar. Dave and I settle up, then talk about their marketing efforts, about the new cafe. On that morning, I don’t even see Shannon. Like me, with two kids and a family business, she’s a moving target. Her parents have all they can do to keep up with her. I’ve heard similar complaints from my own folks. Shannon’s and my relationship exists in the world of text messages.
The butter doesn’t last long. Neither does the milk. I text Shannon one Thursday morning, asking if they’ve had a chance to make any more butter, if I’ll be able to run up for milk. She doesn’t respond. On Friday morning, I text her again. An hour later, my phone blips:
I’m so sorry the news hasn’t reach you yet..we lost my Mom Saturday morning to a sudden, massive heart attack. We’re reeling still….
I feel a weight drop through my body. I plummet to my chair. Gail. So cheerful. Always working. No history of heart trouble. I see her in my mind, handing Saoirse and Ula buckets of milk to carry to the newborn calves…stopping by the farmers’ market stand on Saturday mornings to grab eggs before we sell out…working in the creamery, hair tied back in a bandana, letting Shannon’s dreams for Cowbella lead a century dairy farm into another century. I think about her grandchildren, about how integral she has been to their daily lives. I think about her husband, so busy in their enterprise that I rarely saw them standing together, yet so excited about the inventiveness of Shannon’s dream.
And I think about Shannon. I think a lot about Shannon. Hers is a path that I know. We are the new generation. We forego the benefit packages and forty hour work weeks because we see the family farms where we grew up, and we can’t make sense of our world if they don’t continue to exist. At first, we come back to the family farm with a darning needle, trying to hold it together. But then, as we darn and stitch our lives and our farms, the color changes. We go from farms with commodity products to websites and Facebook pages. From bulk tanks to creameries. We open stores and cafes.
We can’t just do what our parents have always done. To make it all work, we have to take what was theirs and make it uniquely ours. We have to change the color of the yarn if we’re going to keep the sweater. And we push. We push hard, trying to create something that will stand strong, that will hold together all the things we hold so dear to our hearts: the grass on the hillsides, the cattle in the pasture, the creak of the kitchen floorboards, the spring peepers in the night air, the laughter of our children, the joy in our parents’ eyes.
And then there’s suddenly a hole torn in the fabric. And someone is gone. No warning. No time to say goodbye. And all that darning threatens to unravel.
And we wonder: Did we push too hard? Did we miss a sign? Was there something we could have done differently?
Maybe we could tell each other “I love you” a little more often. Or pause more often in the day for a hug, linger a few minutes longer by the door before rushing out to the next thing. But the darning needle must never stop. It must always weave in and out of the fabric, changing colors, maybe, but holding shape. Holding on to a family tradition necessitates a life that is perpetual motion and reinvention. It never stands still. I know there is a giant hole in that family right now. And from our side of the mountain, we are threading their needle with love and prayers as Shannon and her family once more resume stitching.
Weft and warp. All One. Hugs from the edge.
your post caused me to pause
and lift my head
from whatever hole it was in
and think about what we are all so busy doing
and perhaps plan a slight refocus
thank you
we have met the cowbella folks
and know them slightly as we know you
we are sorry for the loss to everyone
Well, that was a tear jerker! As sad as it was, this is the way I want to go when it is my time…at home, doing something that I like to do. My sincere condolences to the family!
My condolences for your sudden loss. I know Gail must have led a full life, and there are now others to carry on her work. It doesn’t make up for the loss. Nothing can. But it means what she started, can keep going. Blessings to your household.
Beautiful read. Life is a process like any craft. Thank you.
Being who I am and what I do, I see the gift of a quick release from Life as just that — a gift: dying doing what she loved, no lingering, no pain, no horrific medical mangling.
We will all die. It’s part of the contract. And yes, those left behind mourn the hole that needs darning. That, too, is something that is part of the contract. But there must also be joy and thanks for a life well lived. For as long as Gail’s children and grandchildren take up her tasks, her generosity, and continue her compassion for the land, the animals and the people who connected with her, she, too, continues.
Blessings on Gail for all she gave, both to those who knew her and those, like me, who merely savored her products with gratitude for her commitment.
Beautiful, thank you.
Beautifully expressed and so sorry to learn of such a tremendous loss to all those left behind who knew and loved her so much. Yes, we all need to be more aware of time that once gone can never return. So it is so important for each one of us to let those whom we love know how much they are loved and appreciated for their gifts. We all have a special purpose on this earth and must carry through to fullfill that God-given gift. I just took a drive on the West Fulton Road since I lived at Hill Farm at Vintonton Road. Still so beautiful! Thank you Shannon for such a heart gift of words.
Thanks for taking the trip, Carol! Someday soon you might even be able to stop in and visit! There’s still a lot of construction dust in the meantime….not so tasty in coffee!
I grew up knowing Gail and David and Shannon though the county fair. Although we did not see much of each other throughout the year, our always wet summer reunions at the “Sunshine Fair” were waited upon with great anticipation the whole year. And while we called them our “fair friends”, they were more like family. And no child would have made it through the week without Gail’s magical “energy cookies”.
Regretfully, it has been many years since the Withingtons have been at the fair, and far too long since we have spent time with Gail and her family, except for a quick run-in at The Carrot Barn when Cowbella was first getting a foothold in the market. Gail was so instrumental in getting my mother back on her feet after my father’s sudden death, I just wish that we could do the same for her family. But the years and the miles and the ever-moving life make that difficult. The distance does not keep us from sending our love and wishes, but please take care of their precious family and know they have love and support (and vacation potential-although we know what the odds of that are for farmers) in the lowcountry of South Carolina.
Thank you for your touching piece about Gail.
Such a moving and heartfelt tribute to Gail, and a wonderful reminder to linger at the door and to give more hugs. Too easy to get caught up in our frantic-paced lives, worrying about things that are certainly important, but less important than our dear relationships. Thank you for your always touching and meaningful writing.
Peace and prayers to all, life is about the memories, may they all be good and for the so-so memories be glad to have shared them it is about the journey and reaching out. Obviously, you all reached out and touched each other, beautiful story. God bless you all!
I became a fan of the Cowbella brand and can’t have a satisfying day without its milk. I have been able to email Shannon over the making of the milk and the care of the cows enough to satisfy me that their products are healthy for me. I had no idea of the family structure and how similar it was to Sap Bush Hollow’s, which I have become recently acquainted.
Gail and Adele are probably the last of the women that make farming their full time work. The men have already been working several jobs besides farming to keep the place going. Gail gave it her all with love. That love will last in all she touched, created and knew her. I didn’t know her but yet I cried knowing “the hole” left. Everyone relied on Gail for the roles she took on. It will be painful for the family to take on those responsibilities knowing those were mom’s but they will gain strength and knowledge too.
I agree, no can take mom’s place or job but to keep float and keep going, they’ll have to work around it. Mom’s are such a big help especially when they love what they’re doing. By reading this post and some of the comments, Mrs. Gail was a really nice person and loved working. Like she was the reason for the good morning smile. It was very touching to read.
Please accept my deepest sympathy for the loss of your dear friend’s Mom, Shannon. My prayers to go up to the heavenly Father to shower down peace, comfort and strength for the family and all dear friends.
Ohhh boy… As a knitter, darner, farmer, mother and daughter, this post really struck a nerve. Thank you for the reminder that everything can change in an instant. It’s a reminder to be present, thankful, and to spread the love.
The deaths of our dear ones shape us like their lives did. Gail reminds me to enjoy acts of generosity, some will live beyond the giver’s life.Through your story telling, Shannon, my heart opens, my throat closes and the tears fall. I didn’t know Gail, bit I have been the grateful recipient of those acts of generosity. She nudges me to put aside my “not enoughs”… time, money, energy…and give into my natural inclination to share. Hugs to all, and thanks for the good cry.
I agree. “Time” is something precious that we won’t ever get back. This post just makes you value life more and love more because once someone is gone, there’s no coming back. Like the saying says “smell the flowers while you’re still here”.
The deaths of our dear ones shape us like their lives did. Gail reminds me to enjoy acts of generosity, some will live beyond the giver’s life.Through your story telling, Shannon, my heart opens, my throat closes and the tears fall. I didn’t know Gail, bit I have been the grateful recipient of acts of generosity like hers. She nudges me to put aside my “not enoughs”… time, money, energy…and give into my natural inclination to share. Hugs to all, and thanks for the good cry.
This post really did make me sit back and just think for a minute. When someone so dear to you pass, you suppose to keep the love that you shared in heart so the pain and hurt won’t be as bad. I lost my mom 2 years ago and my dad this pass Christmas, and both of those holes are still open. I believe that they reopened because I recently found out that I’m expecting my second baby and my parents aren’t here this time to push me through with this one. I guess the love that they had for me and showed me has “threaded” the hole in m heart because I know and can still feel the love that was given to me. I feel the pain of Shannon and her kids because my 7 year old daughter doesn’t see her grandparents anymore and always talks about how she misses them but my unborn don’t have that chance at meeting them. This is very touching to me. My condolences to the family.