At Granny's

My thoughts travel back to the late 1950’s to the little
town of Tolu, Kentucky, where my Granny, Lil Morris lived.
We were all much younger then and times were so much
simpler. Entertainment was the real world and there was
plenty of it to go around. Life in a very small town can be
dull for visiting Grandchildren, but Sunday afternoon at
Granny’s had its little rewards.
One coveted chore was collecting eggs from the hen house.
Being “first” meant a lot in those days as we raced out the
back door with a tattered basket lined with cloth. At our
young age there was something magic about finding eggs in
an otherwise empty hollow of straw.
Now, a sitting hen was a different story. Looking into the
cold emotionless eyes of a chicken, I was convinced that any
thoughts it might have about me would be pure evil. I
always passed this one by. But my older brother, Jerry
always seemed to get there first, braving dirt daubers and
cobwebs. Then right about the time that I entered the
doorway, feeling relatively safe, he would spook the hen off
the nest and I had to run for my life! It’s no wonder the
door stayed in disrepair.
Adjacent to the hen house was Granny’s washhouse.
Although she had a new washing machine in the basement,
she could still be seen running clothes through the old
wringer. The washhouse air was thick with the smell of lye
soap and mothballs. Anyone stepping onto the old porch
was sure to hear small critters inside scurrying to their
dark hideouts. Granny was always good to us, and we loved
her, but I sometimes felt, as a five-year-old might, that this
was the place where spells were cast, and I would not
venture there alone.
Granny saved everything from used Christmas wrapping paper
to rain. Granny’s back porch and cistern top were covered
with a wide array of metal pans, tubs and buckets. During a
slow steady shower, the sound of a marimba band could be
heard through the open windows of Granny’s kitchen.
When we washed up for dinner, likely as not, we used a
white enameled wash pan full of rainwater.

Sunday dinner at Granny’s would meet you at the front
door with the smell of cream style corn, chicken and
dumplings, and homemade apple pie with it’s dough lattice
sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Being a large family
we gathered chairs from throughout the house and
squeezed in around the table. The youngest one would
usually sit on a yellow metal stepstool that was Granny’s
helper, as she wasn’t very tall. At one time or another, each
of us kids had eaten from the pewter infant’s plate that my
Dad used as a child. Granny rarely cooked a large amount
of any one dish, but rather a wide variety in many small
dishes, and always lemonade or Iced tea.
Houses in the area all seemed to be linked by a maze of
deeply worn footpaths. These were the products of careful
treading as the older residents were often seen breaking
stride to keep a footfall within the bare spots.
The path leading to the post office, which was also a private
residence, meandered onto a rolling walkway of old red bricks
trimmed with moss which were cool under little bare feet. As
children we sometimes spent a week at a time with Granny and would
delight in sending a letter home, although Marion was less than
twenty miles away. Often Granny would get a letter from
an acquaintance, exchanging a recipe, a comment on the
weather or a recitation of how a stranger was somehow a
distant relative.
The old store in the two-story brick building was a favorite
of mine. It seemed more like a gathering place than a
business. My Dad would buy us an Orange Crush or a
Grape Nehi from the slide top drink box. Licorice and hard
candy were kept in glass vending jars along an
age-darkened counter. I enjoyed cavorting with the locals,
sitting on wooden pop crates stood on end. But you had
to watch your step lest you stepped where someone spat.
Summer nights always came with the dove’s song, as a thin veil
of fog would creep into nearby fields. There, an old tractor might
putter home along a fencerow amongst freshly baled hay,
leaving lightning bugs to keep an all night vigil. One could
hear a back porch conversation somewhere near bouts in
soft voices that chimed in the evening calm. An old
speckled hound, seen briefly in patches of moonlight
through great oaks, slowly would make his way to some
familiar porch.
At Granny’s, bedtime came early. I would lay awake
watching the curtain sheers perform their slow dance on
night breezes. Tucked deep into the feather bed, I slept to
the cadence of the old cuckoo clock in the living room, and
the occasional tap of night bugs on the window screen.
These are the times that are tucked away in the fruit jars of
my memories, like preserves of the moments, to taste again
and remember.