Ever=Sweet Butter

My Midwestern side of the family lives in northwest Ohio, on neat acres of farmland that grow corn, wheat, and soybeans. The terrain is profoundly flat, divided into mile-long squares, demarcated by the county roads. If you set off down one of these roads, you can see the stop sign that marks the mile from where you begin the walk. It is strange, after hilly Virginia, those winding, curvy roads, to see what’s coming here, long before you get there. The symmetry is inarguable. Even driveways seem smoother. My father grew up on a dairy farm here, which has long since sold off its cows, but I was pleased today, in the supermarket, to find Napoleon butter next to the Greek yogurt. (Napoleon is a town close by.) Spying the local butter in the grocery store is like catching a good anecdote from my grandpa about his early days of farming. Both are rare, winning, and unadorned.