Scotch caps and squash blossoms

Scotch caps and squash blossoms. Her grandfather had a scotch cap, she remembers the rough wool and whiskers. Her grandmother had a squash blossom. It was her signature piece. A chambray shirt, a swipe of lipstick, and a squash blossom necklace.

It’s function and flirt, leather and lace. One defines functionality, the other beauty and class. Today it is 15 years since grandpa hung up his scotch cap and five since mom wore grandma’s squash blossom to her funeral. Today it’s the granddaughter who wears both the scotch cap and the squash blossom.

 She is a woman who periodically pulls a trailer through the carpool lane at the school and has donned muck boots on many a trip to town. She’s returned home, parts and vet meds in hand, to notice the mud in her hair.

She knows where the chains, hooks, puller, alcohol, and Dex are and the order in which they’ll be needed. She can mix a calf bottle with one hand while holding a sleepy and grumpy toddler in the other.

She uses grandmother’s pie recipes and the apron made from a worn chambray shirt and some lace from a drawer. She’s not without style, or lipstick.

She’s not without style, or lipstick.

It’s been a particularly hard and wet winter and now spring. They’ve brought calves in from the storm and sorted in mud that sucks the life out of everyone. It’s been piles of coats and Nuflor and wet cotton gloves and milk replacer and laundry.

She came in late from the barn one night, mud splattered across her face and clothes soaking wet. She pushed her dripping and tangled hair back and hung up her Scotch cap. She looked in the mirror and the woman looking back, although tired and dirty, had the grit of the Scotch cap and the glamour of the squash blossom.

 

 

 

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