I must have been told early on that I had only one grandmother, and that one grandmother was Mammo, who was my mother’s mother. The reason for this was because my father’s mother died in 1920 during the influenza epidemic that swept the world like a giant tsunami wake, killing millions. She was 34 years old when she died and pregnant with her fifth child, a baby who would have grown up to be my aunt or uncle.
I didn’t miss the grandmother I never knew. In fact, I remember thinking that being partially grandmotherless made me interesting, having someone who should have been something to me die before she ever had the pleasure of meeting me. It was the only sad part of my family’s history as far as I knew, so I believed it added a tragic element to my otherwise boring short biography
In my child mind, I never thought about my daddy or my aunts and the fact that they’d lived most of their lives without a mother and how hard it must have been for them. That’s because when I met them they were my grown up daddy and aunts and they seemed just fine.
It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I realized what a sad thing it was that my grandmother wasn’t given a life long enough to see her children grow up. And it wasn’t until I became a grandmother that I was able to see what my own grandmother missed and what I missed never having had the chance to love her, to sit in her lap as she recounted her own memories, telling me I looked just like she did at my age.
My daddy and his sisters didn’t talk much about their mother. The only story I recall my father telling was one about his mama being all dressed up to go out and his pitching a fit, causing her to cancel her plans. My aunts, who were only five, three, and one when their mother died sadly had very few first-hand recollections of her and just a couple of photographs, one of which was her wedding picture.
When my father passed away in 1994, I was still young enough not to have given much thought to the family stories he could have told me. Not asking more questions when I had the opportunity is one of the things I regret most when it comes to all members of my family who have passed on. Although two of my aunts are still living, it’s difficult to get them to remember and share family stories. I've learned that I can’t be pushy. I have to be patient and wait for a memory to come as they rest in their revery.
Just recently, my Aunt Madge, in a flash of clarity, confided that my father had, as a seven-year-old boy, stood by himself at the window of his bedroom and watched as the wagon from the livery stable his father owned carried his mother’s body away.
That tiny glimpse into my father’s sad childhood just about broke my heart.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Daddy’s in the Trunk of the Car ~ by Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
In the 1950’s, before the safety of children was guarded by laws and all manner of protective equipment, we Rhodes kids enjoyed life on the edge. If we weren’t roller skating in a partially floored attic or walking on stilts down public roadways, we were cooking potatoes on a stick over a fire built in a metal drum. Amazingly we survived to adulthood along with some very good memories. One of my favorites has to do with Daddy.
We lived at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, just a few miles from adventure. Daddy took us up the mountain to pick apples, strawberries or nectarines depending on the season. During the summer we would drive to Earl’s Ford to play in the cool mountain water of the Chattooga. Much to our delight we were allowed to ride in the trunk of the car. The three of us would pile in and an old broom handle was given to me, the eldest, to prop open the trunk lid. We would take off, enjoying the trip in our family’s makeshift version of a pickup truck. Going up and down hills, over bumps and around the curves of mountain roads was tantamount to the modern kid’s amusement park.
Fifty years later Daddy made his final trip up the mountain. After his cremation I told Mama I’d pick up his ashes from the funeral home. She was weary and grief-stricken. I did not dare question her decision to have Daddy’s ashes buried in the Rhodes family plot next to his parents, brothers and infant granddaughter. I also did not request permission for what followed. Equipped with 4 Ziploc bags I carefully put a scoop of Daddy’s remains into each bag and left the rest in the box for burial. After the funeral and graveside service we put Mama in bed for a nap and quietly changed into what our parents used to call our play clothes. We traveled with our families up the mountain to Earl’s Ford and returned a part of Daddy to the Chattooga River, a place he loved enough to share with his four children.
I couldn’t empty my bag completely. I needed to save a little of Daddy. I added some polished small stones from the river’s edge into the bag and wrapped it all in a Wal Mart sack. For the next year I kept that Wal Mart bag in the corner of the trunk of my Civic. Some might question the lack of dignity. For my Daddy, I felt it was only fitting.
May 15, 2011: In memory and honor of Daddy on what would be his 94th year.
We lived at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, just a few miles from adventure. Daddy took us up the mountain to pick apples, strawberries or nectarines depending on the season. During the summer we would drive to Earl’s Ford to play in the cool mountain water of the Chattooga. Much to our delight we were allowed to ride in the trunk of the car. The three of us would pile in and an old broom handle was given to me, the eldest, to prop open the trunk lid. We would take off, enjoying the trip in our family’s makeshift version of a pickup truck. Going up and down hills, over bumps and around the curves of mountain roads was tantamount to the modern kid’s amusement park.
Fifty years later Daddy made his final trip up the mountain. After his cremation I told Mama I’d pick up his ashes from the funeral home. She was weary and grief-stricken. I did not dare question her decision to have Daddy’s ashes buried in the Rhodes family plot next to his parents, brothers and infant granddaughter. I also did not request permission for what followed. Equipped with 4 Ziploc bags I carefully put a scoop of Daddy’s remains into each bag and left the rest in the box for burial. After the funeral and graveside service we put Mama in bed for a nap and quietly changed into what our parents used to call our play clothes. We traveled with our families up the mountain to Earl’s Ford and returned a part of Daddy to the Chattooga River, a place he loved enough to share with his four children.
I couldn’t empty my bag completely. I needed to save a little of Daddy. I added some polished small stones from the river’s edge into the bag and wrapped it all in a Wal Mart sack. For the next year I kept that Wal Mart bag in the corner of the trunk of my Civic. Some might question the lack of dignity. For my Daddy, I felt it was only fitting.
May 15, 2011: In memory and honor of Daddy on what would be his 94th year.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Peonies Keep Blooming ~ by Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
Circa autumn, 1862: Whetstone Community, Mountain Rest, SC.; a stone’s throw from the beautiful Chattooga River. Malinda Robins Crisp knelt in her garden and prepared the earth for planting. Against the backdrop of civil war that ripped through the land spilling blood onto our sad soil, my great grandmother was planting peonies. Each spring the delicate pink flowers unfurled their soft, perfumed petals outside the home she shared with her husband Allison.
Two little girls, Fannie and Annie, were born, grew, played and learned the domestic arts from Malinda. Each May the cool mornings and warm sunshine coaxed the buds into magnificent pink blooms. In 1893 Malinda’s worried hands cooled four-year-old Annie’s brow as she struggled with the fever of meningitis that would forever close her ears. Three years later Malinda and Allison wiped away tears as they left their youngest at Cedar Springs School for the Deaf and Blind in Spartanburg. Upon her graduation Annie returned to the upstate. She had met George Elliott Rhodes at Cedar Springs and when she was 23 they married. Elliott and Annie moved down the mountain to the little hamlet of Walhalla.
Malinda sent peony cuttings with Annie (my Nonnie) who planted them in her garden. Those flowers grew and multiplied and graced the garden and the family table for years. I still have the note from my 5th grade teacher, thanking me and Nonnie for the beautiful peonies I brought her. I can still see Nonnie’s hands wrapping the peony stems in wet newspaper so they would survive my walk to school and I remember the pride I felt when I gave them to Mrs. Stoudemire.
After Nonnie’s death, my mother Martha and my father Harry moved into the home. Martha loved a pretty yard so she tended the peonies. For years she divided and transplanted them and when age began to take its toll she worried what would become of the peonies. She wanted us to take some for our own yards but I lived in Savannah and the coastal climate doesn’t do for the peony. Soon as I moved to Atlanta I began to plan on some family peonies in my yard. Mama had died but sister Becky helped me divide them and brother Rob helped me plant them in my back yard and every year they bloom.
I’m sitting on my screen porch as I write this and those delicate, resilient blooms are bringing me great joy. Their pink beauty conjures up memories of loving women who opened a nurturing space in their hearts for me. This year I celebrate with my Katie her first Mother’s Day. I am filled with awe and smiles as I watch her tenderly love little Rhodes. I celebrate my Emily’s path toward a teaching special education. I am confident there is plenty of space in her heart to welcome children in her care as well as children who may come into her future home. I am a lucky woman. Real motherly love is so resilient, so powerful, so portable….like the traveling peonies!
Who were the women who made space in their hearts for you?
Two little girls, Fannie and Annie, were born, grew, played and learned the domestic arts from Malinda. Each May the cool mornings and warm sunshine coaxed the buds into magnificent pink blooms. In 1893 Malinda’s worried hands cooled four-year-old Annie’s brow as she struggled with the fever of meningitis that would forever close her ears. Three years later Malinda and Allison wiped away tears as they left their youngest at Cedar Springs School for the Deaf and Blind in Spartanburg. Upon her graduation Annie returned to the upstate. She had met George Elliott Rhodes at Cedar Springs and when she was 23 they married. Elliott and Annie moved down the mountain to the little hamlet of Walhalla.
Malinda sent peony cuttings with Annie (my Nonnie) who planted them in her garden. Those flowers grew and multiplied and graced the garden and the family table for years. I still have the note from my 5th grade teacher, thanking me and Nonnie for the beautiful peonies I brought her. I can still see Nonnie’s hands wrapping the peony stems in wet newspaper so they would survive my walk to school and I remember the pride I felt when I gave them to Mrs. Stoudemire.
After Nonnie’s death, my mother Martha and my father Harry moved into the home. Martha loved a pretty yard so she tended the peonies. For years she divided and transplanted them and when age began to take its toll she worried what would become of the peonies. She wanted us to take some for our own yards but I lived in Savannah and the coastal climate doesn’t do for the peony. Soon as I moved to Atlanta I began to plan on some family peonies in my yard. Mama had died but sister Becky helped me divide them and brother Rob helped me plant them in my back yard and every year they bloom.
I’m sitting on my screen porch as I write this and those delicate, resilient blooms are bringing me great joy. Their pink beauty conjures up memories of loving women who opened a nurturing space in their hearts for me. This year I celebrate with my Katie her first Mother’s Day. I am filled with awe and smiles as I watch her tenderly love little Rhodes. I celebrate my Emily’s path toward a teaching special education. I am confident there is plenty of space in her heart to welcome children in her care as well as children who may come into her future home. I am a lucky woman. Real motherly love is so resilient, so powerful, so portable….like the traveling peonies!
Who were the women who made space in their hearts for you?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Easter Family Dinner ~ by Al Jones, Atlanta, Georgia
I was in grade school, maybe 6 or 7 years old. It was my parent’s turn to host the family for Easter Dinner. There were about 11-12 people: my brother and I, our parents, my Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Bill and my cousins Bob and JoAnne, my Mom’s parents Granddaddy and Grandmother Betts, and my Dad’s Mother, Grandma Jones.
Mom was a good cook and she like to try new things. I don’t remember everything she served, but the special item for this particular Easter was the salad. She had made Jell-O eggs. To do this she took raw eggs and using a needle punched a small hole in one end through which she drained the raw egg. Once drained, the egg shells were thoroughly rinsed and then used as molds for the gelatin. Everyone’s salad contained 2 or 3 finished eggs, so I estimate she must have used 2 or 3-dozen eggs in the process. The liquid gelatin was poured into each shell through the same hole where she had drained the egg, and then chilled in the refrigerator; after setting up, the eggs were cracked to recover perfect egg-shaped creations. There were eggs from lemon Jell-O, eggs from strawberry Jell-O, eggs from lime Jell-O, eggs from grape Jell-O.
When we were called to dinner, the table was set and beside each dinner plate was a salad plate holding a festive and colorful array of eggs arranged on a leaf of lettuce with a little dressing. It was pretty spectacular to my 6-year old eyes. We ate at the dining room table with both leaves pulled out. We could all squeeze around it, but with this many people the chairs were almost touching. I got to sit next to my Uncle Bill which was a treat because he was one of my favorite people. After everyone was settled, my Dad asked us to bow our heads so he could say the blessing. We were taught to bow our heads and close our eyes so we could focus on the prayer. This began, but I felt my Uncle moving and couldn’t help opening my eyes to see what he was doing. He reached carefully to his salad plate, picked up a purple egg, smelled it, and put it back in place all before the Amen was said and everyone else opened their eyes.
In hind sight, this was one of my small coming-of –age experiences. Uncle Bill had a good sense of humor which may have been behind what he did, although he had nothing to say during the meal. Before this happened, I would never have imagined not paying full attention when the blessing was being said. For whatever reason, he and I never in all our other times together with family or on the golf course talked about the purple egg. We might have had a good laugh about it.
Uncle Bill died about 3-years ago. He is one of my heroes. His wife Bonnie developed Alzheimer’s disease many years ago, and Uncle Bill became her 24/7 caregiver until finally it was not possible for him alone. But this care giving was just one aspect of his life. He was fun; he was involved as a volunteer; he was a model I like to consider even now after his death.
Mom was a good cook and she like to try new things. I don’t remember everything she served, but the special item for this particular Easter was the salad. She had made Jell-O eggs. To do this she took raw eggs and using a needle punched a small hole in one end through which she drained the raw egg. Once drained, the egg shells were thoroughly rinsed and then used as molds for the gelatin. Everyone’s salad contained 2 or 3 finished eggs, so I estimate she must have used 2 or 3-dozen eggs in the process. The liquid gelatin was poured into each shell through the same hole where she had drained the egg, and then chilled in the refrigerator; after setting up, the eggs were cracked to recover perfect egg-shaped creations. There were eggs from lemon Jell-O, eggs from strawberry Jell-O, eggs from lime Jell-O, eggs from grape Jell-O.
When we were called to dinner, the table was set and beside each dinner plate was a salad plate holding a festive and colorful array of eggs arranged on a leaf of lettuce with a little dressing. It was pretty spectacular to my 6-year old eyes. We ate at the dining room table with both leaves pulled out. We could all squeeze around it, but with this many people the chairs were almost touching. I got to sit next to my Uncle Bill which was a treat because he was one of my favorite people. After everyone was settled, my Dad asked us to bow our heads so he could say the blessing. We were taught to bow our heads and close our eyes so we could focus on the prayer. This began, but I felt my Uncle moving and couldn’t help opening my eyes to see what he was doing. He reached carefully to his salad plate, picked up a purple egg, smelled it, and put it back in place all before the Amen was said and everyone else opened their eyes.
In hind sight, this was one of my small coming-of –age experiences. Uncle Bill had a good sense of humor which may have been behind what he did, although he had nothing to say during the meal. Before this happened, I would never have imagined not paying full attention when the blessing was being said. For whatever reason, he and I never in all our other times together with family or on the golf course talked about the purple egg. We might have had a good laugh about it.
Uncle Bill died about 3-years ago. He is one of my heroes. His wife Bonnie developed Alzheimer’s disease many years ago, and Uncle Bill became her 24/7 caregiver until finally it was not possible for him alone. But this care giving was just one aspect of his life. He was fun; he was involved as a volunteer; he was a model I like to consider even now after his death.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
I Churched with Dwight Eisenhower ~ by Marcia Mayo, Atlanta, Georgia
Memories are often, for me, like smoke drifting over my head and then evaporating - just a wisp and then gone. The other morning while putting on make up, I remembered that my family once attended church with President Eisenhower.
Now, that memory wasn’t a surprise. If I’d seen it as a true-false question on a test about my life, I could have easily marked it "true." But the memory wasn’t fleshed out; it was a mere whisper, flirting with me as I applied blush to what used to be the roses in my cheeks.
What? Did we really do that?
Yes we did, and this is how it happened.
I believe it was around 1956 and we are visiting Gettysburg as many good Americans did and still do, when we heard that the President and his wife were spending the weekend at their farm there and they would be attending church the next day. I think my mother must have read it in the paper. She also noted an admonition that well-wishers, if they arrived at a certain time, would be able to see the President and First Lady from the sidewalk across the street from the church, but they would be kept behind police barriers for the safety of all involved.
What happened the next morning was a combination of my family’s adherence to the notion that Sunday equaled church no matter where you happened to be, and my mother’s cunning. I’m pretty sure that, good Methodists that we were, we’d packed our church clothes next to our binoculars and we'd planned to visit a local Methodist Church in the midst of our trip. But Mama, at the last minute, decided we should at least try to look Presbyterian on that one day to see if we could add our own personal family chapter to the American history books by bypassing the giddy throngs as we made our way, with what I'm sure was a1950's version of white protestent condescension, into the very same sanctuary where the President was opening his hymnal and tuning up his vocal chords.
All I need to add is that Mama's plan worked and I do now remember the way the leader of the free world's bald head added a special shine to the front pew of a Presbyterian Church on a certain Sunday in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania over fifty years ago, and that, furthermore, this particular family chapter has now been written and the memory has become a Norman Rockwell painting in my mind.
This is why I believe that writing down memories is so important, even if we don’t think of ourselves as good writers. The documentation helps to give substance and color to those wisps and whispers, or as my friend, Efton, puts it so beautifully: The "putting in words" somehow gels the flurry of blurred memories - turning a bit of a fogged past into a very clear moment - one moment otherwise lost in the storm of going on with life.
What wisps and fogged pasts do you have that could use some articulation?
Now, that memory wasn’t a surprise. If I’d seen it as a true-false question on a test about my life, I could have easily marked it "true." But the memory wasn’t fleshed out; it was a mere whisper, flirting with me as I applied blush to what used to be the roses in my cheeks.
What? Did we really do that?
Yes we did, and this is how it happened.
I believe it was around 1956 and we are visiting Gettysburg as many good Americans did and still do, when we heard that the President and his wife were spending the weekend at their farm there and they would be attending church the next day. I think my mother must have read it in the paper. She also noted an admonition that well-wishers, if they arrived at a certain time, would be able to see the President and First Lady from the sidewalk across the street from the church, but they would be kept behind police barriers for the safety of all involved.
What happened the next morning was a combination of my family’s adherence to the notion that Sunday equaled church no matter where you happened to be, and my mother’s cunning. I’m pretty sure that, good Methodists that we were, we’d packed our church clothes next to our binoculars and we'd planned to visit a local Methodist Church in the midst of our trip. But Mama, at the last minute, decided we should at least try to look Presbyterian on that one day to see if we could add our own personal family chapter to the American history books by bypassing the giddy throngs as we made our way, with what I'm sure was a1950's version of white protestent condescension, into the very same sanctuary where the President was opening his hymnal and tuning up his vocal chords.
All I need to add is that Mama's plan worked and I do now remember the way the leader of the free world's bald head added a special shine to the front pew of a Presbyterian Church on a certain Sunday in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania over fifty years ago, and that, furthermore, this particular family chapter has now been written and the memory has become a Norman Rockwell painting in my mind.
This is why I believe that writing down memories is so important, even if we don’t think of ourselves as good writers. The documentation helps to give substance and color to those wisps and whispers, or as my friend, Efton, puts it so beautifully: The "putting in words" somehow gels the flurry of blurred memories - turning a bit of a fogged past into a very clear moment - one moment otherwise lost in the storm of going on with life.
What wisps and fogged pasts do you have that could use some articulation?
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The Wooden Tray ~ by Andrew Bleke, Atlanta, Georgia
The wooden tray sat on top of the white Sears refrigerator for as long as I could remember.
Each day, my Dad would come home from work. I could hear the backdoor open. He would walk to the refrigerator and drop his keys into the tray. It was easy for him to do because he was taller than the refrigerator. He would then kiss my Mom, who had been working on dinner. After making a drink, Dad would stop again at the tray before heading to his chair in the den. There were items that my Mom had placed in the tray. They were the items of the day…..letters from relatives in Indiana or Massachusetts, recently developed photographs from a family outing, school report cards, an obituary or perhaps a quote for some home repair. The tray was a snapshot of current events for our household.
We moved into the house in the winter of 1963. I was 4 years old and could only see the edge of the tray when I looked up at the refrigerator. I could only get access to the tray by climbing onto the kitchen counter and then peering down into the tray. This would take place when my parents weren’t nearby. I found that there were other items that I was unaware of……coins, matchbooks, old sticks of cinnamon gum, a house key and an occasional pack of Salem cigarettes. As I grew older and taller, the wooden tray held less interest for me.
About three years ago, my brother, Eric, and I were helping my parents move from their house to an apartment in Asheville, NC. They had downsized on two other occasions in the past twenty years or so. Now, my parents were 80 years old. We were sorting through things making decisions about this or that. Dad picked up the wooden tray. I hadn’t seen it in years. He said it was unusual, in that it had been cut from a single piece of wood. He went on to say that it belonged to my maternal grandfather, who was a carpenter. The tray was in his home in Milton, MA. Dad said “This tray use to sit….” And I stopped him. I said” I know where that tray was’. He said “please take it home with you” and I did.
Note from Allison and Marcia: Objects often hold memories for us just like Andrew's dad's wooden tray. Take the time to find an object that holds a memory for you.
Each day, my Dad would come home from work. I could hear the backdoor open. He would walk to the refrigerator and drop his keys into the tray. It was easy for him to do because he was taller than the refrigerator. He would then kiss my Mom, who had been working on dinner. After making a drink, Dad would stop again at the tray before heading to his chair in the den. There were items that my Mom had placed in the tray. They were the items of the day…..letters from relatives in Indiana or Massachusetts, recently developed photographs from a family outing, school report cards, an obituary or perhaps a quote for some home repair. The tray was a snapshot of current events for our household.
We moved into the house in the winter of 1963. I was 4 years old and could only see the edge of the tray when I looked up at the refrigerator. I could only get access to the tray by climbing onto the kitchen counter and then peering down into the tray. This would take place when my parents weren’t nearby. I found that there were other items that I was unaware of……coins, matchbooks, old sticks of cinnamon gum, a house key and an occasional pack of Salem cigarettes. As I grew older and taller, the wooden tray held less interest for me.
About three years ago, my brother, Eric, and I were helping my parents move from their house to an apartment in Asheville, NC. They had downsized on two other occasions in the past twenty years or so. Now, my parents were 80 years old. We were sorting through things making decisions about this or that. Dad picked up the wooden tray. I hadn’t seen it in years. He said it was unusual, in that it had been cut from a single piece of wood. He went on to say that it belonged to my maternal grandfather, who was a carpenter. The tray was in his home in Milton, MA. Dad said “This tray use to sit….” And I stopped him. I said” I know where that tray was’. He said “please take it home with you” and I did.
Note from Allison and Marcia: Objects often hold memories for us just like Andrew's dad's wooden tray. Take the time to find an object that holds a memory for you.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
On Jello and Womanhood ~ by Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
Memories of food and of the women in my family are closely related. A time honored way to care for loved ones, certain culinary offerings represent to me the temperament and personhood of the women who were the elders in my family. Today is my late mother’s birthday and I suppose I will always miss her. Some of her meals were classics in our family and one in particular set a living example for me.
Mary Martha Rowland Rhodes was a loving mother and a creative woman. In the winter of 1970 she extended an invitation to my boyfriend for Sunday dinner. Mama asked me what he especially liked to eat. The guy, later to become her son in law, was not a “picky eater” I replied. This sort of sets most cooks minds to ease. I knew he would enjoy her roast beef, green beans, squash soufflé and sour cream pound cake which were regular Sunday items. Then I added, “I know he really likes gelatin salads with fruit.”
Gelatin salads were not a menu item at my home but Mama was undaunted. Equipped with her ideas, but without the aid of a recipe, she embarked on her creative process. The lack of a recipe was an earmark of Mama’s creative process. For instance, when sewing she would often say, “Anybody can make it like that” as she added or removed a detail from the frock pictured on the pattern. “This will be different. You won’t see yourself coming and going.” For her this meant the outfit would be special. For me it meant I would indeed not see myself in anything that resembled an off the rack item.
Back to the cooking episode: The dusty jello mold, which had heretofore been only part of the kitchen’s early American wall décor, was taken down and put in the sink for washing. Her thoughts were to fill the gelatin with an array of wonderful fruit and place something whipped in the middle of the wreath- like mold. Planning ahead as good cooks do, the jello salad was made the night before and placed in the refrigerator. It would be bright red and in the center there would be a mound of whipped sinful stuff to slather on top.
Sunday arrived and we girls helped Mama put out the meat platter and the bowls of vegetables. My sister Becky and I were told to have a seat while she unmolded the salad. We waited patiently at the table until she would present us all with the salad extraordinaire. Then we heard, “Dadgummit!”(the closest my mother ever came to cursing) coming from the kitchen. A mélange of pineapple, strawberries and bananas was swimming in a platter of runny jello. Boyfriend and the rest of the family rushed in and laughed heartily. Disappointed, but ever- resourceful (a child of the Great Depression never let food go to waste), Mama set out to redeem the jello. “Go ahead and let’s have the blessing and I’ll be right back.” We began to eat and a few moments later she arrived with the same runny concoction but now it was dressed up with cream cheese she had piped in swirls with the cake decorator. More laughter and the offer of straws ensued. She never missed a beat.
Mama’s successes were punctuated with the occasional flop….but that seems to be the price you pay for being creative. Some crafts may have looked a bit weird, but she could help them evolve into an interesting creation. Each flop was merely a challenge to do it differently or better. She saw promise in odd junk. There was the year she used a drawer full of tops from little concentrated orange juice cans and fashioned an award winning Christmas display around our front door. We all thought her idea a bit wacky and yearned for a simple wreath or a Santa on the roof until we saw the final product.
Mama left us almost 6 years ago. I miss her terribly. I miss her cooking, her gentle loving and her beautiful crafty hands. But one legacy she left me is represented by that jello salad. She taught me I could live life without a recipe. Sometimes it would fail, sometimes it would fly. I could be different and that would be special. When I hurt I could trust the genetic resiliency represented by that jello episode to make something good out of what seems a flop. Thanks, Mama.
Mary Martha Rowland Rhodes was a loving mother and a creative woman. In the winter of 1970 she extended an invitation to my boyfriend for Sunday dinner. Mama asked me what he especially liked to eat. The guy, later to become her son in law, was not a “picky eater” I replied. This sort of sets most cooks minds to ease. I knew he would enjoy her roast beef, green beans, squash soufflé and sour cream pound cake which were regular Sunday items. Then I added, “I know he really likes gelatin salads with fruit.”
Gelatin salads were not a menu item at my home but Mama was undaunted. Equipped with her ideas, but without the aid of a recipe, she embarked on her creative process. The lack of a recipe was an earmark of Mama’s creative process. For instance, when sewing she would often say, “Anybody can make it like that” as she added or removed a detail from the frock pictured on the pattern. “This will be different. You won’t see yourself coming and going.” For her this meant the outfit would be special. For me it meant I would indeed not see myself in anything that resembled an off the rack item.
Back to the cooking episode: The dusty jello mold, which had heretofore been only part of the kitchen’s early American wall décor, was taken down and put in the sink for washing. Her thoughts were to fill the gelatin with an array of wonderful fruit and place something whipped in the middle of the wreath- like mold. Planning ahead as good cooks do, the jello salad was made the night before and placed in the refrigerator. It would be bright red and in the center there would be a mound of whipped sinful stuff to slather on top.
Sunday arrived and we girls helped Mama put out the meat platter and the bowls of vegetables. My sister Becky and I were told to have a seat while she unmolded the salad. We waited patiently at the table until she would present us all with the salad extraordinaire. Then we heard, “Dadgummit!”(the closest my mother ever came to cursing) coming from the kitchen. A mélange of pineapple, strawberries and bananas was swimming in a platter of runny jello. Boyfriend and the rest of the family rushed in and laughed heartily. Disappointed, but ever- resourceful (a child of the Great Depression never let food go to waste), Mama set out to redeem the jello. “Go ahead and let’s have the blessing and I’ll be right back.” We began to eat and a few moments later she arrived with the same runny concoction but now it was dressed up with cream cheese she had piped in swirls with the cake decorator. More laughter and the offer of straws ensued. She never missed a beat.
Mama’s successes were punctuated with the occasional flop….but that seems to be the price you pay for being creative. Some crafts may have looked a bit weird, but she could help them evolve into an interesting creation. Each flop was merely a challenge to do it differently or better. She saw promise in odd junk. There was the year she used a drawer full of tops from little concentrated orange juice cans and fashioned an award winning Christmas display around our front door. We all thought her idea a bit wacky and yearned for a simple wreath or a Santa on the roof until we saw the final product.
Mama left us almost 6 years ago. I miss her terribly. I miss her cooking, her gentle loving and her beautiful crafty hands. But one legacy she left me is represented by that jello salad. She taught me I could live life without a recipe. Sometimes it would fail, sometimes it would fly. I could be different and that would be special. When I hurt I could trust the genetic resiliency represented by that jello episode to make something good out of what seems a flop. Thanks, Mama.
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