I guess people shopped differently back then......

Jewel Tea, Watkins spices -- my grandmother had them all sitting around her kitchen. I remember the Jewel Tea Man and MomP sitting in her living room pouring over the catalog. Sitting in her living room, with a cup of coffee or tea, perusing a catalog, deciding what to order, placing that order, and then waiting for its delivery to her door. Not too much different from online shopping, huh? Except for the fact that there was a real-live human being sitting next to her showcasing the items, taking the order, and then delivering them to her door -- instead of a computer and USPS/UPS/FEDEX....

Then there was the egg man, and the vegetable man, and (could there have been?) the meat man. These men would appear on the side of Avenue Z, selling their wares out of the backs of their trucks. I can see my grandmother along with the other ladies gathered around the back and sides of the peddlers' trucks, picking and choosing the fresh produce that would soon make its way to family tables. Even though these men must have run regular routes from farm to city, it was a bit magical to me how they seemed to just......appear.

For some reason, the egg man stands out in my mind. I can't really say what was so different about him except for the fact that I remember how he would holler out -- eeeeeegg man, eeeeeeeeeegg man, eeeeeeeeegg man's here. In the days when screen doors were all that separated the outside from the inside, that sound carried all through the house. Scared the bejeezus out of me! I'd run and hide under the table -- the one with all the butcher knives taped underneath (out of reach of anyone deciding to break in).

Today, I do lots of my shopping online, yet I still find myself dreading those stock-up trips to Target or WalMart. ......It wouldn't bother me one bit to have trucks filled with produce stopping at my door. Nope, not one bit, and you wouldn't find me hiding from the egg man anymore.


Yes, I guess people shopped differently back then. But, then again, maybe not so very differently. And......maybe it wasn't such a bad way to shop.



** The picture of the Jewel Tea cookie jar on top is just like the one resting in my china cabinet. It's one of the few items I have of MomP's.

A Little Lagniappe......

I try out a new recipe each holiday; here's the one for this Thanksgiving. Looks good -- I hope it turns out to be!



APPLE CRANBERRY SALAD

- 6 CUPS DICED APPLES
- 4 CUPS WHOLE CRANBERRIES
- 2 1/2 CUPS SUGAR
- 1 CUP OATS
- 1 CUP BROWN SUGAR
- 1 CUP CHOPPED PECANS
- 1 STICK BUTTER

Spray bottom and sides of 13-inch rectangular baking dish. Layer with apples and cranberries; sprinkle with sugar. In a separate bowl, combine oats, brown sugar and pecans until crumbly. Sprinkle over fruit. Dot with butter and bake for one hour at 350 degrees.


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La Cuisine

The kitchen. The heart of the home. That certainly was true about 212 -- at least for the women folk. It was there that confidences were shared, tears were dried, fears were quited, hugs were exchanged, advice was freely given, spats were begun -- and resolved, announcements of newly expected family members (by birth or marriage) were celebrated, and laughter filled the air alongside delectable aromas. And, somehow, in the midst of all this, some damn good food was prepared.

It wasn't a fancy kitchen by any means. The mismatched furniture was scarred and dented with memories of the generations who had gathered round the two tables to fill their empty bellies and -- possibly an empty spot in their hearts. The walls echoed the stories, laughter, and prayers they had been privilaged to witness over the years. The small walk-through pantry that connected the kitchen and the dining room was the perfect spot for us cousins to hide and listen to the aunts gossip. We thought we were so smart! About the time our giggles gave us away, the smell of fresh rolls or cornbread would overcome us and we would organize grab-and-run attacks on the bread. We always ended up with a special plateful of warm rolls or cornbread with butter oozing down the sides. I don't know why we didn't just ask. No, it wasn't fancy, but it was beautiful.

My grandmother had two stoves -- a gas range that in her later years we feared her using because of her habit of catching her pot holders on fire, and a wood burning stove whose oven turned out the best pot roasts, sweet potatoes, and peach cobblers anywhere. Lazing behind the wood stove was a favorite activity of the house's cats (whose job it was to catch the mice supposedly scampering around the kitchen). On cold winter days kindling was brought in from under the back porch along with a full bucket of coal to feed the fire.

Even though my grandmother was queen of her kitchen, it was not unusual to see my grandfather frying meat in a skillet on top of the wood stove. He, being a butcher, didn't trust anyone else to safely prepare the meat. That was his only job in the kitchen -- except to eat. My grandmother cooked three full meals a day, and served them on the table topped with a red and white checked table cloth. In the middle of the table (that sat at least ten), you could depend on finding jars of home-made pickled peaches, peppers, and beets along with bottles of farm-fresh honey with the comb, and Golden Eagle (soppin') Syrup for the biscuits -- hot out of the oven or cold sitting on a plate in the cabinet.

My spot in the kitchen varied. If only my family was there to eat I was allowed a place at the big table. If it was Sunday or a holiday I found myself at the children's table on the side of the room by the window overlooking my godmother's house. My chair was always the same though. It was not as high as a regular chair and it had a rounded back. It fit me just right. I sat in that chair until I married and brought children of my own to 212. By that time both tables in the kitchen were dedicated children's tables, and two adult tables were needed in the dining room. I worked my way up to one of the tables in the dining room, but never to the main table.

I guess this would be a nautural point to describe my kitchen duties, but....as it turned out, I had none. I can only assume that, over the years, my grandmother and her daughters had choreographed their kitchen routine so finely that an additional dancer would have been superfluous. From time to time, as I sat in front of the tv waiting to be called to the table, my grandfather would pass by and suggest that I check in the kitchen to see if I could help. So, I'd trudge to the kitchen and ask how I could help. It never failed that I'd be handed a potato masher. So it was that I became a master of mashing potatoes. My grandfather always found some excuse to walk through and as he passed me by, he would pat my shoulder -- as I was mashin' away. And....at some point during dinner he would catch my eye, lift his fork, and with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face, toast me with a fork full of fluffy, snow-white mashed potatoes.

Of all the many memories I have of the kitchen at 212, one stands above all the others -- especially at this time of year. It involved my mom, me, and Christmas. My mom was always on the go, always volunteering, working on one committee or another. My mom was always busy, then she was sick, then she was gone. We never seemed to find the time to have the relationship I never knew I needed, but realize now I miss. Maybe that's why this memory is so dear to me.

It was a drab, chilly day close to Christmas. There must have been a chill in the air inside the house on Avenue Z because I remember wearing a scratchy sweater along with thick, warm, comfy socks. There was a fire burning in the wood stove and the smell of my grandmother's tea cakes browning in the oven filled the air. Even though it was cold outside and chilly in the rest of the house, the kitchen was toasty warm. My mother had decided my hair needed washing and that the kitchen sink was where it was to be done. So there we were, the two of us -- me with my head lowered over the kitchen sink and my mother gently massaging lavender scented shampoo into my hair as we sang "Silent Night".

This Thanksgiving, I hope you all create one memory that will bring a smile to your face each time you think about it in the years to come.

The China Poodle and the Rich Cousin

She was the moneyed one, this cousin who was a friend as well as a relative. We were partners-in-crime on many adventures and -- misadventures. Oh, the stories I could tell on her (and me)! But......this special memory has pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. Maybe because I learned a couple of things that day.

We were meandering through downtown Pratt City that sultry summer day, my cousin and I, trying to stifle the boredom threatening to break through. And.....most probably hoping for a breeze to wash over our sweaty glistening bodies and produce that glorious evaporation effect -- if only for a moment.

You see, since none of us cousins actually lived at the house on Avenue Z, our frequent stays demanded that we be creative in how our time there was spent. In my younger days, I spent many long hours playing cowgirls and Indians with my brother and his friends, galloping on my stick horse . (Did anyone else have one of those?) Many long afternoons were also spent playing with my dolls under the huge trees in the side yard. I remember setting up *house* -- with doll- sized dishes, bassinette, highchair -- under those huge sheltering branches. The sidewalk that ran along the side of the house was used for the doll stroller....with diaper bag hanging from the handle. Just like my mom when she strolled my baby brother. When we felt lazy we would lie on the grass in the side yard, looking up at the clouds, defining shapes which we would bring to life by attaching stories to them. After supper, the front porch insisted we grace it with our presence until dark when we would head for the side yard and the fire flies until our mom hustled us in to wash up before the trip to the land of nod.

Unfortunately, these time consuming activities didn't endure into our preteen years. Those years saw us extending our boundaries, wandering farther from the house on Avenue Z. There were two directions we cold have wandered -- to the park or downtown. I never remember much happening at the park (except for the summer ceramics classes) so we headed downtown. A short-ish walk provided us with access to grocery stores, a drug store, a library, a cafe, and......air conditioning. There was also a gift shop, and that's where we found ourselves on this particular day.

"Oh! Look at the little china poodle in the window," my cousin said. I looked and saw it there in the midst of various and sundry froo-froo. "Mom would just love that," she said. Now she had my attention. I realized she was thinking about her mom while we were idling away the time, not the drug store with its jewelry display and its cherry cokes, or the cafe with its juicy hamburgers -- as I had been. She wasn't even thinking about the library where (because our moms knew *people*) we could check out as many books as we wanted.

Nope! She wasn't thinking about any of these things. She had someone other than herself on her mind. Even at that early age, I remember being wow-ed by that fact. And......by the fact that she had enough money of her own to just decide she wanted something and go in and buy it.

Even though I don't personally own any, I still get sentimental when I see china poodles.

And....every time my own daughter brings me a gift out-of-the-blue or a memento from a trip she's taken (as she always has -- since a wee lassie), I have second thoughts about my long-held belief in nurture over nature.

Gindaddy

That's what we called him. I have no idea which of the older cousins' soft baby lips, more accustomed to forming a small "O" around a nipple (bottle or breast)-- than summoning attendance, was first to bestow that moniker upon my grandfather. Such a simple, even silly word -- Gindaddy. A child's inept attempt to mimic what he'd heard. Yet it was a word that came to take on a life of its own. A word that defined a man. A word that, when spoken, communicated it's intent -- quickly, succinctly. The way we cousins (and my grandmother, my mom, and the aunts) inflected that word when we uttered it spoke volumes to each other.

Where to begin in my attempt to describe this man who was so important in my life; this man who had such a lasting influence; this man I respect to this very day. I remember him as being strong, yet kind, gentle, soft-spoken, and fun-filled. When I bring his face to mind, I see him smiling, his eyes glowing with pride -- for me. I don't remember him raising his voice....ever, yet, make no mistake, he was king of his domain. I don't know how we cousins knew that was true, but we did. I don't know how we knew what he expected of us without him saying a word, but we did.

Maybe we gained this knowledge from our mothers -- the girls he raised. My impression from them was that they saw him as stern, a task-master, demanding excellence. Yet their impressions were loving ones. Thinking back, I cannot remember any family member in this rather large family, ever making a disparaging remark about him or MomP. Er....one slight correction here -- (you know what they say about universal statements). I do remember MomP being aggravated with Gindaddy and voicing her aggravations (IOU's) :), but not disparaging him. How has it come about that so many of todays' parents seem to think nothing about putting down the other parent in front of thieir children? I've done it myself. Did it not happen as much back then, or was I just unaware or.... out of ear-shot?

When I think about my grandfather one anecdote after another zips through my mind. Maybe relating these memories will best explain how I remember him.

Gindaddy always wore a white dress shirt, a suite vest with a pocket for the fob holding his pocket watch, and suite pants. I never remember him in anything else -- even when doing outside work, although he would sometimes roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt when working outside. When going out, he wore a straw hat if it was summer. The rest of the year a fedora crowned his head.

I remember one summer at the coast when he and MomP were walking down the dirt road in the middle of a group of family headed to the beach. Gindaddy took MomP's hand and said, "You and me. You and me. We're going to sweep the stars." As he said this he raised one arm and made a huge sweeping motion. I don't know if I remember this because it was unusual to hear him say something so personal, or because of MomP's reaction. Normally she wouldn't respond to his teasing or jokes. But on this glorious summer day, surrounded by family, with her man expressing his devotion to her, I remember a small, shy smile coming to her face as she averted her huge brown eyes slightly downward. And I remember they both had on hats.

My grandfather had a headfull of beautiful, wavy, thick, silver-white hair, which he would let me brush for minutes on end. Now, I haven't the faintest idea why I wanted to brush his hair.... But he would sit in his chair, reading his newspaper while I brushed away.

My grandfather taught me how to use the dictionary. Well....maybe he didn't actually teach me how to use it, but he insisted I use it. During my younger years my dad traveled during the week and my mom was skittish about staying home alone -- alone with me and my two brothers. So we would load up, drive to my grandparents' home to spend the night, wake up early, drive home to dress and get to school. The result was that much of my homework assignments were completed at my grandparents. MomP was always busy in the kitchen or bathroom (the snuff??) and my mom was busy with my brothers, so I ended up doing my homework in the room where my grandfather would sit reading the paper. If I needed to know the spelling or definition of a word I would ask him, and he never failed to tell me to "look it up." Aggravated the hell out of me!

My grandparents raised five children during the depression. I don't remember talk of hardship, although there must have been some. The only story I remember is the one of my Aunt B (one of the more spirited aunts) as a teenager wanting to visit a friend who lived some distance away. Apparently she was told the gas rations were low and she couldn't make the visit. So......as the story goes..she hid on the wide running board of Gindaddy's car. He was halfway to work before he noticed her. He had to turn around and take her back home -- wasting some of that precious gas in the process. BTW, this is the same aunt who really and truly received switches and ashes one year for Christmas. At least, that's what my grandmom, my mom, and the rest of the aunts insisted was true. If true, it didn't dampen her spirit.

Gindaddy had four daughters. While they were growing up he told them he'd rather see them with a broken leg than on a dance floor.

My father was olive complected with dark, wavy hair. When my grandfather met my father, Gindaddy was convinced my dad lived on "Catholic Hill." My mom's family were Southern Baptist, so....

Not often, but enough to remember, my grandfather would sit in a rocking chair on the front porch peeling pomegranates for us while singing "Clementine."

As a teenager, I was going steady with a boy from my high school and was wearing his senior ring (with a hunk of melted wax so it would stay on my finger). Somehow I found myself with a date with a different boy for a Valentine's banquet. This boy and the banquet were both in my grandparents neighborhood. So when I got to my grandparents I at least had the decency to take off one boy's ring before going out with a different boy. I put the ring on my grandparents mantle and when my grandfather saw it he was quite upset because it looked to him like it belonged to a man -- not a boy. The interesting thing is that he didn't say a word to me. MomP related all this to me.

When I was in college and would come home on weekends, my grandfather would give me a dollar to "help out next week." God love him.

In my wallet I still have a yellowed, brittle Dear Abby Q&A that my grandfather cut out of the paper and gave to me. The question was from a college freshman talking about the sexual aspect and temptations of college. How she felt as if she had to "put out" to be accepted. Across the clipping my grandfather had written, "We are not worried because we know our K would never think like this. This is NOT our K."

My grandfather had a dream about me and he woke up crying. He would never tell anyone what the dream involved, even my grandmother. Again, he didn't tell me this -- my grandmother did. To this day I wonder what the hell that dream was about!


There you have it, my strongest memories. That's him. That's my Gindaddy.

MomP passed away before my grandfather. He didn't live many years after that -- he said he didn't really want to. When he died I was in Florida visiting my mother-in-law. My mom hadn't told me he was ill because she didn't want to ruin our trip (we were students at the time, piss-poor, with few resources to do much of anything). My mother-in-law told me of his death when my husband and I came back from the Jai-Alai arena. I had been at a sporting event betting as my grandfather was dying. I imagine he would rather have seen me with a broken hand or sumpin'.

Time for a sing-along......

Okay everybody...... All together now. A....one. A....two. A....three! ......"We are fa-mi-ly!"

What is it about family? What are these ties that bind us together so tightly -- or at the very least, tether us to each other. How is it that Uncle 'Who's It', or Cousin 'Bad News' is welcome to sleep on the couch at a moment's notice, no matter how long it's been since we've seen him or her -- if ever. What draws us together on holidays and special occasions? Why do we run home to celebrate, to mourn, to heal?

What the hell is it about family?

And why won't these people get out of my head?!?

Smoking......

Remember your first smoking experience -- with the regular, old legal cigarettes? My first puff took place at an aunt's house just up the street and cross the rairoad tracks from 212. ......It just so happened that the cousins on my mom's side of the family naturally fell into similar age groups. There were the older cousins, then came my group, then there were maybe three age levels below me. The only female among the older cousins and I were close. An odd kind of close. Maybe an older/younger sister type relationship? (Not having a sister, I wouldn't know.) We weren't necessarily friends because she liked to boss me around -- more like a mother!

One day, when her parents were at work, and I was visiting my grandmother's house on Avenue Z, the two of us walked to her empty house. As I recall, it was close to her birthday and she was sure her birthday present was hidden somewhere in her house, and she was determined to find it while her parents were away and the house empty. ......She drug me along thinking the two of us could get the job done twice as fast (before our grandmother missed us and came looking!). Two could look twice as fast as one because as she searched, she'd yell orders for where she wanted me to search. She was one bossy bitch.

I don't remember if we found her birthday present, but I do remember that we found her parents' cigarettes. Now this cousin was in high school, while I couldn't have been more than six years old. She knew all about smoking, while candy (especially chocolate) cigarettes were as far as I had gotten. So......we find her parent's cigarettes, her eyes light up, she puts her hands on her hips, looks down her nose at me, and haughtily asks me if I've ever smoked before. Wide-eyed I vigorously shake my head from side to side.

"Well," she says, "we're gonna take care of that right now." She lit up, took a drag, handed it to me and said, "Breathe really deep and then swallow." ......Which I did.

After I figured I wasn't going to die, she looked at me and said, "Well, I bet you'll never be tempted to smoke again." Damn straight!

Yes, for some reason this cousin, for years, thought she should be my mentor. Later in life I realized that as she made mistakes, she'd become fearful that I'd make the same mistake. I guess she just didn't think about the age difference. I mean, at seven years old, I can assure you I wasn't thinking about having sex.

MomP and the Spirits......

Family legend has it that my Irish grandmother was born with a veil (weren't most self-respecting Irish grandmothers?). And there are stories of her abilities to see into the spirit world, but....those are for another day. Today's memory concerns worldly spirits. IYKWIM

MomP ran a teetotaling house. It was understood that no drinking or smoking would occur at 212. Period! Out of the question. But....thinking back. I dunno....

First of all, I know a secret about my grandmother that I don't know if even my grandfather knew -- or any of the other cousins, or for that matter, my aunts or my uncle. MomP snorted snuff. Yes, she did. Now....snorted sounds a tad harsh, so let's say she was a snuff sniffer. I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9 when she began asking me to walk to downtown Pratt City and pick her up some of the stuff -- snuff. At the time, I had no idea what it was, and would never have thought about it twice (MomP could do no wrong, right?), had it not been for one glaring fact. She went to such elaborate means to hide it. The hiding place I knew about (were there more!!) was in the bathroom, somewhere in the stacks of clean, folded towels and clothes. I can see her in my mind now, reaching into that abyss of fluffy towels, clean sheets and underwear that had been brightened and made sweet smelling from hanging out on a clothes line in the sun, from which she'd bring forth that little silver can. If memory serves, she suggested that I not tell Gindaddy. I was a very obedient child.

Then, I remember those Christmas fruitcakes that were soaked in rum and wrapped like a Christmas present not to opened until the the season began. Now I ask you, what happened to the rest of that bottle of rum?

Finally, later in her life, when she developed high blood pressure, her doctor prescribed that she drink a glass of wine a day. One glass. I was either in high school or away at college by this time so I don't have all the details, but.... I do remember the brew-ha-ha among my mom and my aunts when they realized that MomP was making the rounds, calling one daughter and telling her that she was about out of her wine, and then....a few days later....calling another daughter and telling her the same. They calculated that she was going through a bottle of wine every couple of days. That might not sound bad today, but let me tell you, at the time, it was scandalous in our family.

So, I guess I'd have to say that MomP was familiar with the spirits. :)

I hope I'm not in for pay back from the spirit world....