It was during that intermediate period of my grandfather's health, where it had started to decline and he was relatively inactive, but yet he was still alert, at home, but able to still get up some on his own.
I was playing a card game with my grandfather. He was laying on his back on the old green davenport in the living room, and I sat on me knees on the floor beside him. At one point I remember him telling me his chest hurt, which worried me, as I knew his heart issues were a serious matter. I remember how his veins bulged out from his thin arms, dark purple and soft to the touch. I remember how the skin hung loosely down, wrinkled, and marked with large random dark splotches. I remember the rise and fall of his chest, and the white t-shirt he had on.
At the time, I thought I had been terribly clever, surreptitiously (so I believed) sneaking into the hallway closet to stack the deck, so that when I dealt it out for us to play War, we'd continue to match cards over and over. He'd lay down a 3...and...surprise, so would I! I would giggle and act like it was some kind of wondrous coincidence. He would lay down a jack, and so would I. He would lay down a 5, and so would I. The cards would pile up, so high they would tip over, until suddenly I would draw some card much higher than his, and claim the whole stash.
I remember having fits of uncontrollable laughter, and he would just smile, and nod, until at some point I asked him if he were having fun. "No," his genuine reply was. I was startled. I had believed that he must be having fun--otherwise, why play at all? And in my confusion, he explained to me...he thought the game of War was boring, he didn't like it at all, but I liked it, and he knew it would make me happy, so he played even though he didn't really want to.
This was a new idea for me. It tumbled over and over in my young mind, and sank in at a deep level. My grandfather had just gently introduced me to the idea of doing something for someone else, simply because it was important to the other person. It's an idea I still try to take to heart, and I appreciate my grandfather introducing it to me.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Most Mundane of Things (A Memory Evoked)
"Well, get down on the floor and roll then!"
It was his usual response when I would ask for rolls.
These, of course, were not just any rolls. They were my grandmother's fabulous, irresistible, famous, cinnamon rolls. I was a picky eater as a child (and not much has changed as an adult), and the kind to eat around any sort of edge and insist that the crust be cut off my toast. But with mammaw's rolls...well, the ends were a delicacy all their own. Extra masses of the cinnamon gooey goodness would settle at the ends of the pan, and so the end slices then had an extra helping of the crunchy sweet cinnamon goop on them. And I loved it.
Making the rolls was a process. It involved massive preparation, completely taking over the kitchen with pans and bowls and wax paper. She had it down to a technique, and I remember watching in fascination as my mother participated in the ritual on one occasion. Rolls in various stages of the process were strewn around every inch of the table and counter. There was dough in bowls, dough being dipped into butter, dough rolled and twisted, dough in pans, and a few pans in the oven. She would hum to herself, or chatter on with my mom, as they made huge trays of rolls. The event easily engulfed the whole day, and once done, she had trays upon trays that would be taken down to the deep freeze in the basement. Then, on a special occasion...a pitch in at church, Christmas, or even us just spending the night...she would dig out a tray, pop it in the oven, and we'd wait impatiently for them to be ready.
So, at breakfast time, I knew there would be rolls. I laughed at my grandfather's response. He laughed at my laughter.
Decades and two thousand miles away, it's been a long time since that moment. Small knicknacks, a few treasured pieces of kitsch, came along the ride with me from my grandmother's farmhouse. But sometimes it's the most seemingly ordinary of things that can stir a memory.
A fork, an item for daily mundane use, unexceptional except for a bit of detailing at the base. For some reason the etching always reminded me of vines or flowers, but close inspection has lead me to think the design was instead intended as a leaf. This particular set of silverware was always my favorite as a child--and I would insist on using one of these forks when having a cinnamon roll. I can recall one time all of them were dirty, and being disappointed at having to use a fork from a different set. Now, when I hold one in my hand, for just a moment, I am reminded of those cinnamon rolls. The smell wafting from the oven, the crunch of the outside quickly followed a sweet softness, my grandmother humming softly, a pitch in at the church near my grandmother's house...all drift rapidly through my mind. It's a simple thing, really just a fork, but in a way that's what makes it's effect so profound--that such a commonplace item so easily evokes such a deep memory inside me.
It was his usual response when I would ask for rolls.
These, of course, were not just any rolls. They were my grandmother's fabulous, irresistible, famous, cinnamon rolls. I was a picky eater as a child (and not much has changed as an adult), and the kind to eat around any sort of edge and insist that the crust be cut off my toast. But with mammaw's rolls...well, the ends were a delicacy all their own. Extra masses of the cinnamon gooey goodness would settle at the ends of the pan, and so the end slices then had an extra helping of the crunchy sweet cinnamon goop on them. And I loved it.
Making the rolls was a process. It involved massive preparation, completely taking over the kitchen with pans and bowls and wax paper. She had it down to a technique, and I remember watching in fascination as my mother participated in the ritual on one occasion. Rolls in various stages of the process were strewn around every inch of the table and counter. There was dough in bowls, dough being dipped into butter, dough rolled and twisted, dough in pans, and a few pans in the oven. She would hum to herself, or chatter on with my mom, as they made huge trays of rolls. The event easily engulfed the whole day, and once done, she had trays upon trays that would be taken down to the deep freeze in the basement. Then, on a special occasion...a pitch in at church, Christmas, or even us just spending the night...she would dig out a tray, pop it in the oven, and we'd wait impatiently for them to be ready.
So, at breakfast time, I knew there would be rolls. I laughed at my grandfather's response. He laughed at my laughter.
Decades and two thousand miles away, it's been a long time since that moment. Small knicknacks, a few treasured pieces of kitsch, came along the ride with me from my grandmother's farmhouse. But sometimes it's the most seemingly ordinary of things that can stir a memory.
A fork, an item for daily mundane use, unexceptional except for a bit of detailing at the base. For some reason the etching always reminded me of vines or flowers, but close inspection has lead me to think the design was instead intended as a leaf. This particular set of silverware was always my favorite as a child--and I would insist on using one of these forks when having a cinnamon roll. I can recall one time all of them were dirty, and being disappointed at having to use a fork from a different set. Now, when I hold one in my hand, for just a moment, I am reminded of those cinnamon rolls. The smell wafting from the oven, the crunch of the outside quickly followed a sweet softness, my grandmother humming softly, a pitch in at the church near my grandmother's house...all drift rapidly through my mind. It's a simple thing, really just a fork, but in a way that's what makes it's effect so profound--that such a commonplace item so easily evokes such a deep memory inside me.
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