When I was little, I sat at the kitchen table and watched my grandmother churn butter. One morning she said to me, “Koyote, when I was little I watched my grandmother churn butter on the front porch.” She told me that one summer morning they had churned until they were wore out and decided to take the butter to the root cellar, put it in the cool, and rest awhile.”
My granddad had built the root cellar at the edge of the woods and as they moved into the grove of oak trees, two indians screaming at the top of their lungs, jumped out and started waving tomahawks. Granny pulled the plunger out of the churn and started flailing indians. During all this commotion a black bear jumped out of the woods and grabbed one indian and dragged him off ending the assault.
I remember asking casually, “What did granddad have to say about all of this?”
She said, “Everything was fine after we got rid of the constantly visiting black bear
looking for another hot buttered indian.