In the late 50’s and through the 60’s I was one of those girls who really loved sports. Basketball was my favorite and I spent hours playing with friends as well as on teams. I was decent, not great, but I delighted in the teamwork, the exertion and the surprises of play. In junior high I had my first coach, Charlie Johnson. Coach Johnson was a taskmaster and we respected him for it. To warm up for practice he would have us run laps around the gym. Each day it seemed the number of laps grew, but the instructions for the final lap were always, “Now give it all you’ve got!” I would join the other girls as we dug deeper for the burst energy required for last trip around the hardwoods. Sure we were girls, but we were expected to sweat and hustle. There was something about that expectation that called forth the warrior in this otherwise mild-mannered girl. I learned about faking, throwing elbows and taking my licks. But it always began with running laps.
The last few years I have been running laps around my life, metaphorically of course, since the knees and back aren’t what they once were. I’ve looked at the past from different angles. I have approached old wounds and found healing. I have smiled at mistakes and personal quirks that once felt shameful and in them have discovered strength. I have yearned to reconnect with playmates of old. I’ve studied pictures of family who have finished this earthly journey as well as snapshots from my life. Inviting memory I have reflected and written, hoping my stories will reflect to my kids and grandkids the flavor of our family. When I shared this life review process with a friend, she said, “It sounds like you are winding down”.
That comment gnawed at the back of my neck all day. Today is my birthday. I am 63 and I’ll admit there is a sense of the limit of time. When I consider the idea of closing chapters and winding down, however, Coach Johnson and his laps come to mind. These are my later years, but the past seems like a warm-up for what is to come. Juxtaposed against a youth-obsessed culture this ol’ girl is ready to dig deeper for what the game brings next. Older and slower for sure but I’m still able to hustle, sweat, throw a few elbows and give it all I’ve got. Happy Birthday to me!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Home – The Kitchen Table ~ by Tami Patterson, Atlanta, Georgia
The object that reminds me most of “Home” is the kitchen table. Over the years the kitchen table has changed in shape from oval to rectangle. Its wood has been that of oak to pine, but no matter its specific characteristics, the kitchen table has been the center for many memories of home.
Each table has entered the home new and unscathed, but as we have come to it for meals and conversations it has born the battle scars of crayons, cake icing, spilled milk and perhaps a dent or two from toys that have run across its surface. It has been the foundation for many a school project started and completed and its wood has absorbed the aromas of cookies decorated and meals enjoyed.
My family, immediate, extended and ancestors alike, have loved to linger at the kitchen table for hours long after the dessert was gone and the coffee cups were dry. The table has heard conversations of happy times, the planning of weddings, the celebrations of birthdays be it the first or the 100th, stories of the farms, and the mischievous doings of cousins. Its surface has played home to many a board game and the sorting of recipes along with the bantering of siblings, aunts and uncles deciphering whose story is correct.
If the moments around the table could be extracted it would reveal the wondrous history of family and jokes, good days and tough days and the significance of it as a family gathering place – HOME.
Each table has entered the home new and unscathed, but as we have come to it for meals and conversations it has born the battle scars of crayons, cake icing, spilled milk and perhaps a dent or two from toys that have run across its surface. It has been the foundation for many a school project started and completed and its wood has absorbed the aromas of cookies decorated and meals enjoyed.
My family, immediate, extended and ancestors alike, have loved to linger at the kitchen table for hours long after the dessert was gone and the coffee cups were dry. The table has heard conversations of happy times, the planning of weddings, the celebrations of birthdays be it the first or the 100th, stories of the farms, and the mischievous doings of cousins. Its surface has played home to many a board game and the sorting of recipes along with the bantering of siblings, aunts and uncles deciphering whose story is correct.
If the moments around the table could be extracted it would reveal the wondrous history of family and jokes, good days and tough days and the significance of it as a family gathering place – HOME.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Three Men and a Feminist ~ Allison Rhodes, Decatur, Georgia
Father’s Day, 2011
It’s 1967 and I plant my fanny on the steps of the Administration Building at the University of Ga. for my first sit-in. The cause: a girl’s right to wear pants on campus. To wear long or short pants, you donned a trench coat and signed out from your dorm for horseback riding or tennis. When Ms. McClure, intrepid housemother for Center Myers, began to comment on my love for equestrian activities I knew my cover was wearing thin. It was time to take the struggle public. As is true for many historic social movements, others were also tiring of the oppression. Word began to circulate of plans for a sit- in at midnight (one hour past the prescribed curfew for females) and I joined my bold, scared sisters on those cold stone steps. We sat there as the campus police ordered us to disperse or face expulsion. Ultimately we prevailed and the system was changed! Today all those cute little things displaying flat tummies and pierced navels all over Athens can thank their wrinkled, flabby elders!
I have been a feminist since an early age. This Father’s Day I write to honor three men who are largely responsible for fostering “liberated” thinking that has served me well over a lifetime. Here are three messages I claim as their gift to me and I wish for all girls:
You are valuable
When an adult happily invests time and energy in a child’s world, the affirmation is powerful: “You are important to me.” James Fred Rowland, aka Papa, was such an adult for his grandkids. He was content to sit in the porch swing and listen, laugh and play with us. My favorite game was “Guess what color car will come down the road next?” I can still see him keeping score with his carpenter’s pencil on a piece of scrap paper. Whether on the hanging out on the front porch, damming up the branch (a small creek) to create a pool in the woods or feeding his pet squirrel, we kids were sure he was present with us and glad to be there. Thanks, Papa for valuing me.
You can dream
Our uncle George was a quiet man, a bachelor and a gentleman. From the time I was old enough to talk about my plans, George was interested. He would listen as I chatted on about whatever fanciful idea or dream I was currently entertaining. I don’t remember challenges or discouragement, just interest. As a college student I loved to drive over to Walhalla for a weekend visit with my grandparents and uncle. Changing majors 5 times meant George inquired about a wide variety of plans. He would ask questions that helped me elaborate and think through the plan. When I began to discern my call to ordained ministry, George did not comment on the social acceptability of a woman pursuing a “man’s career”. He simply said, “Tell me about seminary,” and he listened. Thanks, George, for inviting me to dream.
You can question and think
My daddy was square peg in the deeps south’s round-holed assumptions about life. Popular thoughts on a variety of subjects were echoed by us kids, usually at the dinner table. Daddy was a man of few words, so when he spoke we listened. I remember telling the family that my friend’s father warned me that “…the coloreds are starting to riot and soon nobody will be safe.” I was scared. Daddy chewed thoughtfully and asked if I would refuse to sit next to Lucille (my grandmother’s maid) or deny her the right to vote or send her children to a good school. Daddy put a human face on the budding civil right’s movement and invited me to reflect on matters of justice not buy into wholesale fear. He encouraged critical thinking and the questioning of popular assumptions. I had a brain and I was encouraged to exercise it. Thank you, Daddy, for encouraging me to think and question.
And thank you, God, for a few good men
It’s 1967 and I plant my fanny on the steps of the Administration Building at the University of Ga. for my first sit-in. The cause: a girl’s right to wear pants on campus. To wear long or short pants, you donned a trench coat and signed out from your dorm for horseback riding or tennis. When Ms. McClure, intrepid housemother for Center Myers, began to comment on my love for equestrian activities I knew my cover was wearing thin. It was time to take the struggle public. As is true for many historic social movements, others were also tiring of the oppression. Word began to circulate of plans for a sit- in at midnight (one hour past the prescribed curfew for females) and I joined my bold, scared sisters on those cold stone steps. We sat there as the campus police ordered us to disperse or face expulsion. Ultimately we prevailed and the system was changed! Today all those cute little things displaying flat tummies and pierced navels all over Athens can thank their wrinkled, flabby elders!
I have been a feminist since an early age. This Father’s Day I write to honor three men who are largely responsible for fostering “liberated” thinking that has served me well over a lifetime. Here are three messages I claim as their gift to me and I wish for all girls:
You are valuable
When an adult happily invests time and energy in a child’s world, the affirmation is powerful: “You are important to me.” James Fred Rowland, aka Papa, was such an adult for his grandkids. He was content to sit in the porch swing and listen, laugh and play with us. My favorite game was “Guess what color car will come down the road next?” I can still see him keeping score with his carpenter’s pencil on a piece of scrap paper. Whether on the hanging out on the front porch, damming up the branch (a small creek) to create a pool in the woods or feeding his pet squirrel, we kids were sure he was present with us and glad to be there. Thanks, Papa for valuing me.
You can dream
Our uncle George was a quiet man, a bachelor and a gentleman. From the time I was old enough to talk about my plans, George was interested. He would listen as I chatted on about whatever fanciful idea or dream I was currently entertaining. I don’t remember challenges or discouragement, just interest. As a college student I loved to drive over to Walhalla for a weekend visit with my grandparents and uncle. Changing majors 5 times meant George inquired about a wide variety of plans. He would ask questions that helped me elaborate and think through the plan. When I began to discern my call to ordained ministry, George did not comment on the social acceptability of a woman pursuing a “man’s career”. He simply said, “Tell me about seminary,” and he listened. Thanks, George, for inviting me to dream.
You can question and think
My daddy was square peg in the deeps south’s round-holed assumptions about life. Popular thoughts on a variety of subjects were echoed by us kids, usually at the dinner table. Daddy was a man of few words, so when he spoke we listened. I remember telling the family that my friend’s father warned me that “…the coloreds are starting to riot and soon nobody will be safe.” I was scared. Daddy chewed thoughtfully and asked if I would refuse to sit next to Lucille (my grandmother’s maid) or deny her the right to vote or send her children to a good school. Daddy put a human face on the budding civil right’s movement and invited me to reflect on matters of justice not buy into wholesale fear. He encouraged critical thinking and the questioning of popular assumptions. I had a brain and I was encouraged to exercise it. Thank you, Daddy, for encouraging me to think and question.
And thank you, God, for a few good men
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Memories of a Grandmother I Never Knew ~ by Marcia Mayo, Atlanta, Georgia
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.
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.
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.
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