Granny Maude’s kitchen

Like the drone of a bee in the distance, unnoticed at first, covered by the other noises around, until at last its volume and timbre overpowered everything else, came a low hum from the roadway. In the kitchen of his grandparents’ house, the boy stood watching his grandmother iron clothes and feeling miserable. His Papa had lain down for a nap, and he’d been forbidden to go outside until such time as his grandfather awoke. His grandmother, a stern, unsmiling woman, stood at the ironing board, whistling a mournful tune as she ironed. She had a large Pepsi cola bottle with a tin stopper in it, which had holes like a shower head. She would sprinkle the clothes with it, and then as she ironed them, steam would escape from the item being ironed. The boy liked the smell it gave off, it was a warm and safe smell, but he wasn’t happy with anything at all today. Earlier he’d been dropped off at his grandparents’ house; his mother had left him in the care of the grandmother, and left for town. Because he’d cried, he’d been swatted on the bottom by the stern grandmother, and then later, he’d been spanked for playing with the Pepsi bottle with the stopper. All in all, it hadn’t been a good morning for the boy, his Papa was feeling poorly, and had gone to bed for a nap, and thus the boy had lost his protector.  The grandfather never gave swats, nor in his memory, had the grandfather ever spoken harshly to him at all, in fact, the grandfather was known to take his grandmother to task about spanking the boy.

The droning hum in the distance caught his ear and he slid from the kitchen chair to the floor carefully eying the grandmother. He started slowly towards the front door of the house careful to appear uninterested in what was approaching outside.

“If you open that screen door I’m gonna take a switch to you.” Warned the grandmother, “I mean it.”

“Yes Granny” he replied.

He navigated his way to the door and peered out, in the distance down the road he could make out the dingy yellow shape of a road grader topping the hill.  A tall dark plume of diesel smoke rose above it and was wisped away in the wind. As he watched, it grew larger and louder, plowing its way up down the road and up the next hill approaching the house. He watched holding his breath, sometimes his father would grade the road as an excuse to come for lunch, but often as not, it would only be one of the men who worked under his father. He hoped with all his might that it would be his daddy, but was almost afraid to look.

With a clattering rumble the engine died, and the machine shuddered to a halt, dust rose from the great blade pressed against the clay road. Then the operator climbed down from the cab and strode towards the door, shaking his arms and head to throw off the red dust from the road. It was his daddy.

“Granny!” he yelled, “Its my daddy, my daddy.” Without asking or thinking, he burst through the doorway and ran across the porch. All was well in his world; his daddy was here, no matter that when lunch was finished and his daddy left he’d be crying again. Daddy was here and all was well.

He ran to the end of the yard and stood waiting, he’d been spanked about getting into the road often enough that he knew he dared not cross it. His father crossed the road and then squatted down holding out his arms. The boy leapt and his father caught him, hugged him and then sat him up on his shoulders so fast that the boy felt dizzy.

“What you been doing Brer Fox?” asked his father.

From the house came the angry voice of his grandmother who quickly emerged from the door, switch in hand.

“Did I or did I not tell you not to open that door?” she asked, “Vance, you had best learn that boy to mind. I can’t have him running out the door every time my back is turned.”

She advanced with the switch.

The boy huddled close to his father, surely he would keep the grandmother from applying the switch, but one never knew.

The father pulled him down from his shoulders, “did granny tell you not to go out the door son?” he asked.

Trembling, the boy looked down at his feet, “yes sir”.

“But I wanted to see you daddy, so bad…”

The grandmother moved closer with the switch, one hand reaching for his shoulder. He wanted to run, but knew the consequences would be worse if he did. He wished his mother had dressed him in long pants this morning, his bare legs trembled in anticipation of the switch.

“MAUDE!!! Let that boy be.” Like the voice of an angel, his grandfather’s voice echoed from the front porch, “put dat switch down and come in dis house.”

The grandfather came out of the house and down the steps, he ambled over to the group there and without a word picked up the boy and started towards the barnyard, “we got to check on nem pigs boy.”

“Yes Papa.”

As they strolled away, the grandmother could be heard complaining to the boy’s father, “Lawd Vance, he is gonna ruin that child, spare the rod and spile the child.”

“I know mama, I know, but you know daddy.”

The grandmother snorted, “Indeed I do, never let me spank you neither, always catching the switch on his hands while he held you for me to spank.”

“I know mama, I know, come on I’ll help you get dinner on the table” the boy’s father led his mother into the house, nodding as she continued to fuss and bluster.

The boy and his grandfather stood at the pig pen looking over at a sow with a litter of new piglets, watching as they squirmed for position.

The boy knew he’d been spared, and vowed to himself to be good the rest of the day lest his grandmother catch him unaware.

His grandfather opened his can of Prince Albert tobacco, and rolled himself a cigarette, an amazing feat to the boy, seeing as his grandfather had almost no fingers on one hand. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up in a cloud of fragrant smoke, took a deep inhalation, then spoke softly.

“Boy, you got to mind yo granny, else she gonna skin you good. Maude don’t take sass very well. Now you behave for her, understand?”

The boy hung his head, “yes Papa” this was worse than any spanking he’d ever endured, to have shamed himself before his Papa. Tears stung his eyes, and he began to sniffle.

“I’m sorry Papa.”

“Here now, here now” the grandfather gathered him into his arms, “ain’t no need to take on so, hush now.” He patted the boy on the back and started towards the house. Unbidden a song sprung from his lips, and he sang off key.

“…come little wind said the spring one day…”

The boy quieted as he listened, cheering with the realization that his papa wasn’t mad with him, he ground his nose into his grandfathers shoulder and hugged him tightly.

When they reached the house, his grandfather sat him down on the door step, “go tell yo granny you sorry for not minding her now.”

“Yes Papa” the boy walked slowly towards his grandmother who stood with her back to him at the sink.

He eased along beside her, not daring to look up, and in a small voice said, “granny, I’m sorry I went out the door, I won’t do it again, promise.”

A moment passed, then she reached down and pulled him tight against her side, hugging him, “see to it you don’t” she increased the hug for a second, then with a quick swat of her hand against his bottom she told him, “now, get set at the table, dinners ready and your daddy got to eat afore he goes back to work.” She turned towards the stove wiping her eyes with a dish cloth.

As the boy climbed into his chair, his father came into the room and sat down beside him.

“Brer Fox, you get straight with your granny?” he asked.

“Yes daddy, I’m really sorry, honest.”

“Best let it be now Vance, let the boy alone.” This surprisingly from the grandmother, as she set a platter of chicken on the table, “we got it took care of.”

The grandfather entered the kitchen and took his place; he surveyed the table and as if satisfied, began to drum his fingers on the edge.

The grandmother seated herself at the table long enough to participate in the saying of the blessing, then began to serve the men, she prepared the grandfathers plate, while he waited as was his custom, then she served her son, then the boy. Without asking she located his favorite piece of chicken from the platter, added corn and rice, and a buttered biscuit. She set the plate before him and watched for a moment as he began to eat.

“If you manage all that, I might find some dessert.”

The boy nodded, unable to speak with a mouthful of chicken, he swallowed and then asked, “what is dessert?”

“Never you mind, just see to it you finish up.” Came her reply.

She at last loaded her plate, took a bite, then rose to fill glasses again as the men drank. The men kept eating, this was the custom and the thought of filling their own glasses, or helping themselves never crossed their minds.

At long last, the boy managed to finish his meal, he carefully wiped his plate with a bit of biscuit, as light bread was never served with a meal at his grandparents table, only biscuits or cornbread.

“Can I have some dessert now Granny?” he asked, he’d managed to decipher what dessert was by the bluish stains on her hands, and remembering that the day before he’d picked blackberries with his grandfather. Surely she’d made blackberry dumplings, and if he was really lucky, there would be ice cream to go with them.

“In time son, in time, your daddy ain’t finished yet, neither is your papa.”

The boy started to sulk, but catching the look on his papa’s face, he decided to go to the next room and play. He asked for and received permission, and left the room, picking up his toy cars on the way. He played quietly in the living room while the adults talked among themselves quietly.

“Well Mama, I got to get back to the salt mines” he heard his father say.  The sound of a chair scraping back came, then his father entered the room.

“Give your daddy a hug boy, I got to go.”

The boy sprang up and began to sniffle, he ran to his father.

“Can I go with you? Please Daddy?”

A long drawn out exodus proceeded, which ended with the boy in tears being held back by the grandmother as the father climbed aboard the road grader and left. She sat and rocked him, whistling her mournful tune again, he couldn’t ever remember her singing, but she whistled constantly.

After a while his tears abated, and he sat up a bit. Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “can I have some dessert now?”

His grandmother laughed, and taking him by the hand, she led him into the kitchen. She lifted him into a chair, and then from the stove she ladled a large bowl of blackberry dumplings on top of a mound of vanilla ice cream and placed it in front of him.

“Mind you don’t make a mess now; I got to get back to my ironing.”

The boy nodded his assent, unable to speak around the mouthful of dessert, he ate steadily and long before the dessert was finished, he’d forgotten his troubles and was wondering if he could play with his grandmother’s collection of salt and pepper shakers without getting caught.

 

 

Footnote:  My grandmother was a very unusual woman to say the least. She was a transplanted Yankee, though I never made the mistake of saying that to her twice, the first time earned me a good switching, as she took great offense to the term DamYankee.

My grandfather met her while working in Connecticut during the early 1900’s, she was raised in a very bad home environment, her father was a bad alcoholic, and they were dirt poor.  After her father killed her mother and then himself, she took her two youngest brothers and raised them as her own, along with having children of her own. I think she was around 18 years old when this happened, she married my grandfather, and moved almost 1900 miles from everything she’d ever known, to the backwoods of south Georgia. She like most mothers of that time frame, lost children of her own, she lived through years of poverty, waiting in anxiety with two sons off at war, and yet she kept her family fed, healthy as possible, and let them know they were loved.

I’m not sure, but I think sometime in her early childhood, she’d either had a stroke, or a bout with polio, as she appears in all the photos I’ve seen of her, to have a drawn appearance to her face, and slightly limited use of one side of her body. She was by no means an attractive woman by the standards of beauty then or now, but she was a very loving, yet stern woman.

As I grew older, I realized the depth of her love for her family, and the sacrifices she made so that they would have better than she had.  After my grandfather died in 1972, she was a shadow of herself, but maintained for a few years more before she passed away. During those last few years, I spend almost every night at her house, being fed all the blackberry dumplings I could eat, and taught lessons about life and the Lord, that I didn’t even realize I was being taught, the day she died, I’d spent the night with her, and she’d had me tell my father she needed to go to the doctor, and as I went home, her last words to me were to tell me she loved me and as usual “behave yo’self”.

Just a few hours later, she was gone.