Shared Memories

 

Sitting on my front porch the other day reminded me of a recent conversation with my aunt, my mother’s youngest sister.  Janie and I are actually closer in age than she and my mom were.  I knew, because of old pictures, that she had spent time visiting on the farm when she was a child, even before I was born and before I have any memories.  I don’t remember why the topic of my grandmother, my daddy’s mother, came up in our conversation, but it led to reminiscences that startled me with their similarities.  I don’t know why it should have, except it just hadn’t registered with me that our times with Dixie Shouse were so close together.  Janie was only ten years old when I was born.

One afternoon, when we were working on the room that was my grandparents’ bedroom and is now my bedroom, we had the windows up while painting was going on.  There was a brisk breeze blowing across the bed, the same bed that has been in that room since before I can remember.  My daddy was born in that bed, I believe, and it could very well be that my granddaddy was born there too.  I sat down on the bed for a moment and had a flashback so strong that it almost took my breath away.  Nanny, as I called my grandmother, and I were stretched across the bed, purportedly taking a nap after dinner, which is what we called our midday meal.  Nanny almost always took a nap then.  It was a family tradition from her upbringing.  “After dinner, rest a while; after supper, walk a mile,” Tom Colley said, according to family lore.  Sometimes she rested on the couch, crossword puzzle in hand, and I can still see her there stretched out with her glasses on her nose and pencil in hand.  But the best times, for me, were the times we both lay across the bed, with the window up and the breeze drifting across our faces.

Janie said she remembered lying on that same bed with Nanny, who I think she called Miss Dixie, with that same window open.  “I used to climb out that window,” she told me, laughing.  She also talked about some little dolls my mama had given her and how Nanny would play dolls with her.  Nanny played with me too, but not so much with dolls because I was such a tomboy.  (Mama used to lament how she would buy all these pretty dolls for me and I preferred trucks and horses and my farm set.)  She read to me a lot, too, and I especially remember us laughing through the Raggedy Ann books. Everybody in the house read to me – I vividly remember my mama reading the Thornton Burgess Mother West Wind series. 

We shared other memories of Nanny that day. As seems to frequently happen, the memories mostly involved food.  Her lemon pie.  I can see her now, rolling out the crust with an old wooden rolling pin.  Her lemon pie was the best, and Janey remembers her Karo pie, which I only vaguely remember.  I have the recipes, worn and splattered, for both pies.  I have never had the courage to even try to make the lemon pie.  Janey said she has made both of them – she’s braver than I am where cooking is concerned. 

I have Nanny’s old pie pan, her rolling pin and her dough tray but my skills do not live up to their history. I would sooner try to fly to the moon as to attempt homemade pie crust.   Both Nanny and Mama made the best fruit pies.  They would roll out a great big crust, larger than the pan, fill it with blackberries, peaches, or cherries, then fold the extra crust over the filling and sprinkle sugar over the top.  There was always pie on the table at dinner.  Sometimes there was enough left over for supper.

I remember Nanny’s fudge – she would cook it on the stove in a big pan, checking to see if it was ready to pour by dropping a bit in a glass of water to see if it made a ball.  Then she would drop it on waxed paper by the spoonful.  It seemed to take forever for it to be cool enough to eat, but it was always worth the wait.  I don’t think I have that recipe; I’m not even sure she had one written down.  When I make fudge, I use a candy thermometer.  I never got the knack of using the glass of water.

The conversation with Janie made me think about shared memories and how special they are.  I had lunch with one of my cousins last spring, and I was telling her some family story.  “I’ve never heard that,” she said.  She suddenly got this sad look on her face and said, “I don’t have anybody to tell that to.”  Her parents are gone and she lost her only brother to Covid a couple years ago.  It struck me almost as a physical blow how sad it is when the people are gone that share your best memories.   I find myself thinking the same thing sometimes when something happen that I wish I could tell my mom and dad.  Brandi Carlile has a song with a line in it that says, “stories don’t mean anything if you got no one to tell them to.”  Sharing memories is almost as important as making memories.  I’m glad I still can do both.

Food for Thought or Thought for Food?

 

I was rummaging around the kitchen the other night, looking for something to eat that didn’t involve defrosting, mixing, or cooking.  For some reason, a vague memory skittered through my head of pineapple sandwiches.  It seemed so unlikely that I had to look it up.  Sure enough, pineapple sandwiches were, and possibly still are, a southern thing.  My granddaddy used to make them, if I recall correctly.  My granddaddy did not cook on a regular basis, but he had a few things he specialized in.  Before I ever heard of s’mores, he made s’mores-like things with crackers, peanut butter, and marshmallows.  I can still picture them, toasted in an old black baking pan.  The crackers at that time came in square packages with four crackers in a large square.  I haven’t seen them like that in years and years.  I’m not sure, but I think they later came packaged with two small squares hooked together to make a rectangle before it became common to just have them in a small sleeve with a single cracker. The peanut butter was spread on crackers, topped with a marshmallow or two and slid into the oven under the broiler.  There was no chocolate involved, although I wouldn’t doubt that some people added it.

I have mentioned before in a story that Granddaddy was famous for his country ham.  He began with a ham processed and cured right here on the farm.  Sugar cured ham from a recipe that, if it was written down, has been lost over the years.  I have his instructions for cooking the ham, a long process involving boiling the meat in a lard stand, wrapping it in a quilt and allowing it to sit, then trimming and baking it in an oven with a coating of sugar and spices.  He didn’t use pineapple on his ham, something that I have a deep-seated prejudice against even now.  Pineapple sandwiches, pineapple in sweet tea, but pineapple never appeared in any kind of meat when I was growing up.   I think there is something in the Bible about that, somewhere in the Old Testament, right close to the verse about not putting sugar in cornbread.   We didn’t eat pizza when I was a young child, but I’m positive that if we had, no pineapple would have appeared on that dish either!  Fruit is not meant to touch meat, just like fruit salad must be kept separate from other food on your plate, preferably in a pretty little cup.  But that food touching on your plate is a whole different story.

I do remember eating sandwiches made with crowder peas, mustard sandwiches and crackers with butter spread on them.  I saw something not long ago about crackers with butter being a popular new snack.  We not only ate crackers spread with butter; I’m pretty sure they used to bring a basket of crackers with little containers of butter to the table in restaurants before they brought our food.  Maybe that was a Southern thing.

Granddaddy also made fruit tea when we had big gatherings at church or at other community meals.  He had 2 or 3 big stoneware crocks, cream colored with blue strips near the top, that he would fill with tea, sugar, lemon juice, sliced lemons and pineapple juice.  I don’t have his exact measurements – I’m not sure he had them written down and I can’t imagine making that much tea at one time anyway.  But people who knew him still talk about that fruit tea, mixed in the big crocks with ice and covered with dish towels to keep the flies out. 

In those days, we served church dinners on large hay wagons out back of the church.  It wasn’t so much dinner on the ground as it was dinner on the wagon!  I wish I could say that I still have one of those big crocks, but somehow we accidentally sold both of them in an auction after my daddy died.

I can’t remember as much about the pineapple sandwiches as I wish I did. I can’t remember if they had cheese slices on them or if it was just mayonnaise spread on white bread and a pineapple slice.  I expect my grandmother made the mayonnaise in the beginning, but I think she eventually used Miracle Whip instead.  I think these were made for church dinners too, although I am not positive.  They may have just been a weekend supper dish in hot weather.  My mama told me that when we gathered at my great-grandmother’s house for meals, they always waited for Nanny to make the mayonnaise. She had a glass container with the word “mayonnaise” and the recipe for it etched on the front with a little handle to crank on top.  I still have the container, but I would not dare to attempt to make mayonnaise.  I don’t see that ending well. 

Granddaddy also made excellent scrambled eggs.  He cooked sausage in the skillet first then cooked the eggs in the same skillet with the leftover grease and little bits of sausage meat.  I remember one time when my mother had been in the hospital and said when she same home that Granddaddy cooked those eggs for breakfast the next morning and it was the best thing she had ever tasted.

When I looked up pineapple sandwiches, I found directions for plain old pineapple mayo and bread and I found several recipes for grilled pineapple and cheese sandwiches.  I did not find recipes for un-grilled pineapple and cheese sandwiches.  Maybe the cheese part is just my imagination because I don’t think our sandwiches were grilled.  I do still eat pineapple and shredded cheese with a dollop of mayo on top and I still eat what we called pear salad.  I thought everyone ate pear salad, which was served in little dessert cups with a leaf of lettuce under the pears, shredded cheese on the pears and of course that little dollop of mayo that was also served on top of congealed salads.  A weird thing about pear salad is that it’s not nearly as good with sliced pears as with halved pears.  I have no idea why, but it’s true.   It's the same principle of cutting sandwiches in four little triangles.  You can eat a dozen little triangles, even if you normally would only eat one sandwich at a time. It's a math thing, I suppose.   I found out years later that pear salad is apparently a Southern thing and people up north never heard of it.  I’ll bet they haven’t heard of pineapple sandwiches either, and I’ll bet they never ate fried chicken, deviled eggs and potato salad served off a hay wagon under a grove of oak trees.

Just after my book was published, my friend Linda bought her copy from Amazon and a couple days later she sent me a message that she had started reading it but had to stop to eat lunch because I wrote so much about food.  I don’t know why I write so much about food; maybe I need to ponder on that and write about it!

Early Spring from the Porch

On this first day of March, I sat on the front porch at twilight.  Despite what the calendar says, it seems spring has pushed the door wide enough to slip past winter’s blast.  The peepers were chirping, wild geese honked overhead and a rumble of spring thunder could be heard in the southwest.  The daffodils are blooming, spring beauties are scattered throughout the grass and yesterday I found a hyacinth that has managed to push a shaggy head through the leaves and grass at the fence. 

 The dogs arrange themselves around my feet, with Sophie taking lookout by my knee nearest the edge of porch and the others finding their own spot.  As gentle as she is, I have noticed that Sophie always seems to place herself between me and what might be perceived as a threat, no matter how safe it might look at the time.  A dog can’t be too careful.

I think part of the reason the extreme cold this winter was so depressing was that we couldn’t sit on the front porch.  I always blame my moods on the dreariness of the grey days, when the sun hides its face and the damp settles in.  But once the temperature reaches front porch sitting level and I take my seat in the swing, even the grey days are bearable.  Birds flutter around the feeders and sing from the nearby crab-apple tree.  My Christmas rose bravely lifts its white blossoms to the cold air.   Hawks sail by on silent wings and owls hoot from the holler at dusk. Things just look better from the porch swing.

Front porches play many roles.  They can be stages for impromptu concerts, when family and friends get together and bring out musical instruments.  They can be a counselor’s office, where advice is sought and given, and sometimes unsought but still given.  A porch can be a history class, where younger generations learn where they came from and the real-life effects of those dry facts in the history books.  New friends are made on front porches and old friendships are cemented.   Games are created and played, and imaginations give birth to dreams.  Laughter rings out, tears flow, and contentment settles in the heart.   Peas are shelled and corn is shucked, with many hands making light work.  Prayers come a little easier in a porch swing and big decisions don’t seem as daunting.  And there is no better way to watch it rain than from a seat on the porch.  Front porches are healing places, especially when they look out over rolling fields and woodlands.  I think a lot of the world’s problems could be solved if the leaders met on a front porch with a cold pitcher of sweet tea and enough porch swings for everyone to have a seat. 

I love to have friends drop by.  Sometimes my house is not fit for company, but my front porch is always suitable for visitors.  There are more excuses for a messy porch!  The cushions may be faded and the stuffing may be leaking out.  The floor may be littered with bones, sticks and unidentified leftover toys.  But all that is unimportant when birds are singing, frogs are peeping, and even the threat of rain can’t dampen the spirit.  It's so steeped in good memories, you can't have a bad day there. I have a little sign on my porch that says, “Front Porch Therapy 25 cents, No refunds.”  I’ve never had anyone ask for a refund!

The wind picked up as the darkness fell and the rumbles of thunder grew louder.  Reluctantly, I went inside, just as the first spatters of rain fell.  It seems March will come in like a lion.  But even if it does, I will put on my jacket and sit on my front porch every day.  It’s good for the soul.

The Dog Door

 

I recently had to replace my storm door.  I decided while I was at it to go an extra step and get one with a dog door built it.  There are advantages to this door – it saves me a lot of getting up and down to let dogs in and out.  But there are disadvantages.  This morning I looked out and saw Scout and Carli playing with their stuffed monkey, a toy that is supposed to be an indoor toy.  That was just the beginning.

It has been a goal of Sophie and Scout ever since they came to live here to escape outside with shoes.  Thankfully, I have learned my lesson about keeping good shoes out of reach, but the old, already tattered shoes I let them play with are now scattered around the yard.  Tim, who rents most of my farm, told me that he found a tennis shoe over in one of the cattle fields last week.  He said he didn’t bother calling or bringing it home because it was way beyond repair.  One shoe is resting on the sidewalk right now as I look out the window.  And this morning, I found a dress in the yard.  It was not a good dress; it was one destined for the rag box even before its trip to the yard.  I’m not sure where they got it, but they can be pretty resourceful when they see something they think would make a good toy.

All the dogs caught on quickly to the idea of going in and out on their own.  Scout was the first one through, christening the new door before the handyman got his tools put up.  Carli was next, right behind him with only a little hesitation when the flap slapped her in the face.  Bear followed.  My neighbor’s dog, Judge, who thinks she lives here too, caught on next.  Sophie – well, let’s just say that Sophie prefers the old way of waiting for someone to open the regular door for her highness.  I think she objects to being slapped on the nose when it swings back.  Sometimes she will go out with the other dogs if she is quick enough not to have to push it open on her own.  The only other problem has been a few instances where two dogs tried to go through at the same time and got a little stuck.

Outside my front yard fence is a little rise that my neighbor Clay calls “the grassy knoll.”  It is a favorite lookout point for all the dogs and they spend a lot of their days there.  I guess you could say it’s their playground, and they have been busy collecting entertaining items.  I walked out there the other day and found multiple large bones, scavenged from the woods and pastures, an inner tube, towels and other cloth of unknown origin, several pieces of rope, plastic bottles, large sticks, old shoes, and a torn-up book they stole from the recycle box.  I don’t know what people think when they drive up to the house.   I will eventually get out there and pick it all up so they can start another collection.  The good thing is, if I’m missing something from the house, I know where to start looking.

The warnings I got from my friends about the dog door involved what might come in the door.  So far, nothing strange has wandered in and the dogs don’t seem to be eager to bring their treasures inside.  They seem to think it’s a toy in and of itself, going in and out and repeating the process several times.  I have to learn to be quicker about closing the inner door when I want them inside.  Sophie still thinks it’s a trick and that she just might disappear between worlds if she uses it.  And I think Scout is using it to play tricks on the other dogs.  Just this morning Bear and Carli were enjoying a nap by the fire when Scout suddenly set up a volley of barks.  Immediately, the two dogs jumped up and burst through the dog door to join him in repelling whatever invaders might be imminent.  There was absolutely nothing that I could see going on and nothing that they could find when they got outside.  They looked around for a couple of minutes, looked at Scout, who had resumed his resting place on the porch, and came back inside.  I can only imagine what they were thinking.

Speaking of Scout, he is the only dog I’ve ever had that will just lie out in the rain, perfectly happy.  Sophie refuses to even go out when it’s raining and the others take refuge on the porch.  But I will look out and there is Scout, in the middle of yard during a rainstorm, just lying there.  I guess it is his heavy coat – the rain probably never gets down to his skin.  Then when he does come in, he is a mess.  And I have noticed that a dog loves his person more when he is wet and muddy than at any other time.  The amount of affection seems to increase with the amount of water and dirt, multiplied by the cleanliness and color of the clothes the person is wearing.  I tell him he is nasty and wet, and he just grins at me and rubs his head on my leg that much harder.  That’s why I never buy white clothes.  Just ask Anne, my friend who wore white pants to my house during a rainstorm for a visit with Sophie’s puppies.  It did not end well for the pants, although she tells me she was able to eventually get them clean!