I’m Pretty Sure I Used to be Cooler
memoir
Not Another One
Long before the advent of “Karens,” I was in a burger place with my kids many years ago and overheard a mother critiquing the burger her young son was half through eating. “Oh no! That’s not done!” Outraged, she asked for the manager. “This is disgusting. Look at the burger! You could kill somebody!”
The manager was polite. “Yes ma’am. Let me get you another.” He quickly replaced her son’s meal.
She sniffed her disdain and snatched the proffered burger. She presented to her little guy who dug in. Again, he finished off about half when Mom pronounced with outrage. “This one’s not done either.” She snatched his burger and tore into the manager.
Soon she was back with another burger. When she unwrapped it for her son, he beseeched her”Mommy, please take this one back. I can’t eat another one!”
It’s My Party
Uncle Jerry drank a little. In fact, Uncle Jerry never drew a sober breath from the time he cashed his paycheck at the liquor store on Friday after work until he got back to the shop on Mondays with a killer hangover. One time he told Bud, “I get paid today and I gotta get drunk. I had the flu all week and feel so bad I cain’t hardly drag. I shore dread it.”
Bud, who’d never been initiated into drinking at the time asked, “Uncle Jerry, if you feel so bad, why do you HAVE to get drunk? Can’t you take a weekend off?”
“Oh no!” Uncle Jerry told him. “I always stay drunk on the weekends.”
He must have been concerned about his reputation. He was Aunt Myrtle’s second husband. At the time I knew them, they’d been married over forty years. If Aunt Myrtle stuck by Uncle Jerry, I can’t imagine what her first husband must have put her through.
Mother went over to visit Aunt Myrtle one Thursday morning, not realizing Uncle Jerry was on vacation. They went out to the garden first to admire Aunt Myrtle’s tomatoes and the green beans that were starting to put out, picking a few for Mother. When they made their way into the kitchen, they encountered Uncle Jerry down on his hands and knees in front of the icebox (not refrigerator). He’d pulled the drawer out and was eating onions and turnips raw with the garden dirt still clinging to them. Considering it was Uncle Jerry, neither one said anything.
He looked up at them and remarked. “This is my icebox and I’ll eat anything I G__ D____ please.” They got their coffee and took it out to drink in the shade.
“Don’t let Jerry worry you none. I forgot to tell you Jerry was on vacation when I told you to come over to get tomatoes,” noted Aunt Myrtle.
“Oh, that’s okay. It is his icebox after all,” Mother replied.
Prayers for Charley
Mother was a forty-year member of her Sunday School Class. She’d grown close to her class members and could be counted on to be in attendance. One Sunday as they made their prayer list, Mother asked for prayers for her four-year-old grandson , Charley, because he’d gotten his foot stuck in a cash register. That broke the composure of the class. Once they stopped laughing, she explained. He was playing with a discarded cash register from his other grandmother’s restaurant when he jammed his chubby little foot in one of the cash slots. His howls brought everyone running to extricate him.
Ewwwwww!
Not long after my cousin started dating Joey, she decided to treat him to her specialty, pancakes with sugar syrup. In case you’re not familiar with sugar syrup, it’s equal parts sugar and water boiled up and perhaps flavored with vanilla or cinnamon to taste. It’s actually very good on pancakes.
She served him up a tall stack of hot buttered pancakes, referring him to the pot of sugar syrup on the stove. He served himself and dug in, instantly spewing out the mouthful. “This is horrible! Is this some kind of sick joke!”
Joy was furious! “What was wrong with him?” Then she looked and saw he’d mistaken a can of bacon grease for the syrup. To make matters worse, he was Jewish.
Well, Black My Eyes!
This post might not make sense to you if you’re not from the South, but I had a near calamity today. I had a taste for black eye peas, so I got my trusty cast iron pot out and started washing peas. Bud made a pass through and nearly swooned with true love when he saw how lovely I looked washing peas, and the garlic, celery, and onion waiting on the chopping block. There would be unhappiness in our home this evening if no peas and ham were forthcoming. After seasoning and starting the peas, I went to the freezer to find the meaty hambone I’d squirreled back a couple of weeks ago. I think to a Southern Cook, the hambone is more important than the ham itself, a delicacy to be hidden from nosey freezer plunderers at all costs. In fact, I have been known to threaten bodily harm when a home-wrecking guest asked Bud, not me, for the hambone after a meal. I put a stop to that hussy then and there!
At any rate, the precious hambone has to be retrieved at the perfect point of denuding. Too much meat on the bone is wasteful. Too little just leaves the pea soup a bit anemic. I knew I had the most darling hambone hidden away in the freezer awaiting its rendezvous with my peas. I reached in the freezer for my hambone and found………..nothing! Well, actually I found ground beef and pork, chicken parts of numerous vintages, several kinds of sausage, vegetables and fruit a plenty, but no hambone. I panicked. Earlier in the week, I’d asked Bud to get the frozen meat trimmings and scraps to the trash. God forbid? Had he mistaken my foil-wrapped hambone for scraps. Worse yet, had he sneaked it out to another woman? I was almost too shattered to look, but finally found my hambone shoved to the back of the bottom shelf behind a bag of ice. Never has a hambone been so welcome. The peas breathed a sigh of relief when I dropped the bone in.
Our marriage was saved.
2 1/2 cups black eyed peas
8 cups water
1/2 tablespoon salt or more to taste
1/4 tablespoon black pepper
1 medium onion (whole)
1/4 c diced celery if desired
Nice hambone
1/4 teaspoon vinegar (or pepper sauce)
Simmer all ingredients in large cooking pot on stove top burner on medium heat. Use cast-iron pot if you have one.
Cook 40-60 minutes or until peas are tender. Do not allow water to evaporate entirely. If peas are dry they will burn quickly.
Serve with hot cornbread
Easter Dress Disasters: A Childhood Memoir
This is me at three. Mother had made this confection of dress for Easter. There is no telling how long she labored over its puffed sleeves and tedious lace-edged scalloped overskirt. I thought the dress was okay but was disappointed Mother made me wear sandals instead of my red Roy Rogers cowboy boots. Mother took this photo with an old-fashioned Brownie camera. I was very impatient at being posed and having to stare into the sun. Sadly, this darling dress was totally wasted on me. It didn’t survive a birthday party when I came near falling in a pigpen. I’m sure these things happen to all girls!
That wasn’t my last Easter wardrobe failure. The very next Easter, Mother got a letter. Grandma was sending us Easter outfits and hats.I still had cowboys on my mind, envisioning a cowboy outfit including a red cowboy hat, boots, and cap pistols and holster. Overwrought with joy when the promised box came, I was devastated when Mother pulled out a fancy dress and straw Easter hat with fake flowers for me. Had “Damn!” been in my vocabulary at the time, I’d have gotten my fanny paddled! Mother made me and Phyllis don the damnable dresses and hats. Again, that Brownie camera came out. While Mother fumbled interminably with the Brownie, our old horse Champ strolled up to the fence and took a bite out of my straw hat bring that Easter fiasco to an abrupt end.
Despite my earlier disappointment over the hat, I wailed like a banshee. Kids!
Memories of a Girl Lost Too Soon
The city had crept on the gracious old house making it out of place among the bustling businesses. One blistering afternoon the streets were cordoned off and the neighborhood nearly impassable. The parking lot at the funeral home was packed. Crowds of people in black pressed up to the doors unable to gain entry. Speakers broadcast sad church music. Even to a young child it was obvious this was a sad occasion.
Mother and Grandma had us play quietly indoors rather than our usual romping on the large porch. My questions about the goings on across the street were brushed off. Mother and Grandma settled at the dining table for afternoon coffee after Barbie and Billy had been put down for a nap. Determined to learn what was going on, I stretched out on the cool hardwood floors near enough to follow the conversation. With my back to the dining table, I hummed as I pretended play, then feigned sleep.
Soon enough, the low talk turned to the events across the street. It turns out, the funeral was for a sixteen-year-old girl. Her boyfriend had stabbed and mutilated her when she attempted to break off with him. In my desperation to learn more, I forgot my stealthy plan to eavesdrop quietly. I sat up and and barraged the coffee drinkers with excited questions. A scolding broke the conversation up and I learned no more.
I’ve recalled that conversation and wondered about that poor girl many times over the years. I was young enough at the time that she was no more real to me than a television program. More than sixty years later, I am thinking of that girl who will be forever sixteen.
Growing Up in a Communal Home: Memories from Houston Part 2
That Barbie led a charmed life, raised by an adoring Mother who felt discipline damaged tiny psyches. While a screaming Barbie was gently extracted from a situation, she’d be pounding Cookie with her precious little fists. Billy and I stared wide-eyed, totally unaware a kid could attack a parent. I don’t believe Mother felt the least concern for the state of my psyche. She’d have warmed by britches in a heartbeat. We’d even get “the look” when Barbie threw a tantrum, tacitly reminding what would happen should we try such a thing.
One stormy afternoon, a thunderstorm raged. We’d been playing the skate/wading pool game on the front porch when we were forced indoors by the lightning. Barbie threw a fit, culminating in an asthma attack. Cookie dragged her off for medication and rest. While she screamed herself to sleep, Billy and I availed ourselves of her treasures. We set our loot up in the half stair closet, playing there all afternoon. It was magnificent having a ready-made hideout.
I believe I had my first encounter with fire ants at that house. I followed Grandma to the backyard, where she was doing some gardening. I saw a huge mound of dirt which I did not recognize as an anthill. Fascinated, I jumped into it. Of course, I was instantly beset by enraged ants. At my screams, Grandma snatched my clothes off and sprayed me down with the water hose. A fast learner, I’ve never been tempted to jump in another ant bed.
To be continued
Nutsrok 