Posting about Janey and our trip to the beach reminded me of another memory I have of her. I told you that she always seemed to love me for who I was, and this is an example of that. This had to have happened when I was about 6, because I did not see that side of my family from about 7 to 13. It’s a mixed up jumble of a memory story, and one that my adult mind has no reference for sorting out, due to the gap I mentioned, so bear with me.

I remember being at Janey’s house, and she had a kitchen with the dining room on one end. Beside the kitchen, running parallel to it, was what may have been a formal dining room, but was used as a family room. Uncle Mike kept his track in there. I can’t remember if it was a train track or a car track, I just remember that it was very large, taking up a good sized rug, one of those thick ones, very plush, cream with pinkish flowers. And I remember him laughing as he played with it. Mike has a laugh that is contagious. It makes you happy just to hear it. My cousin was just a baby on this weekend that I remember.

Anyway, Janey made a jello, and she showed it to me, and told me it was for supper, and that it had to set, and she put it in the refrigerator. Several times that afternoon, Janey caught me opening that refrigerator door, but finally I got it open when she wasn’t looking. And I put my finger right on that tempting red jello. Of course, it was mostly set by then, and there was my finger print. Right there. On the jello. In the jello. Hard evidence that not only had I peeked at the jello, but I had actually touched it. I did not open that refrigerator again that day, needless to say.

Well, suppertime came, and the moment of doom with it. Janey opened the frig and took out the incriminating finger-printed jello. She looked at it, and she said, “Denise, did you put your finger in my jello?”. Her voice had that same musical loving sound that it always had. And I said “no ma’am”. And Janey said, “ok” and served the jello, and nothing more was ever said between us about it.

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When I was young, I did not like peanut butter. It actually made me gag. I think it had more to do with the texture than the taste, because I loved peanuts in any other form, and still do. My Granny used to babysit me while Mama and Daddy were at work, and she served peanut butter sandwiches for lunch almost every day. She would never believe me when I said I did not like peanut butter, because “everybody likes peanut butter.”

I was also sick a lot as a child, and when I was sick, I would go stay with my Grandmother. Even after I quit being so puny, I stayed with Grandmother and Granddad almost every weekend. Compared to Granny, Grandmother was like that wonderful nanny, Mary Poppins. She fed me grits. She fried bacon up crisp, just like I liked it, and she did not grumble when I crumbled that crispy bacon up into my grits and ate it watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Back in the day, nobody had ever heard of live-in nannies and I still don’t know a single family here who uses one. Those are the only two sitters I really remember. My mom kept me with her mostly. I’m not sure if that’s a regional thing, or what, the expectation that you will be the primary caregiver for your own children, but it feels right to me.

Oh, how did the peanut butter sandwich thing work out? Well, when I was 12, I stopped staying with Granny. I forget what the catalyst was, but it was sudden and final. One night I was told “you won’t be going back”, and I never did again. My sister and I would get off the school bus, she would go to Granny’s and I would go on home. We lived right behind Granny at the time. I continued to eats grits and bacon at my Grandmother’s until I left home.

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Today, I will share a story about a grandfather clock. Not one like you are thinking of, but my grandfather’s clock. Papa has always had a wicked sharp wit (yes, it’s a family trait, LOL), and from the time I remember, he’s had a cuckoo clock. When I was very young, he would look at me when it went off and say, “Denise, that clock thinks you are cuckoo”. And then he’d laugh. And I would laugh, too. You should have seen the look on his face the first time I turned the tables on him. He just looked at me a second, and said, “Well, I think you must be right,” and then he laughed quite a while. The first time DD#1 was old enough to take a joke, he pulled the same trick on her.

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Some years ago, about 15, in fact, DD#1 and I came home for Christmas, and Papa and Aunt Janey came down from Anson County and took us out to Carolina Beach. I have some pictures that Papa took that day. They look like commercials. I’d share them, but of course, they aren’t digital.

I remember Janey’s easy laughter that day, and how her blue eyes sparkled like the ocean. I miss Janey. She died several years ago from cancer, and that was one of our last times together before she was diagnosed. She was absolutely my favorite aunt. Relations on that side of my family are fairly weird, but Janey seemed to treasure me always, just for being me. There was never any awkwardness between us, even when my interactions with the rest of the family were punctuated by long periods of silence.

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When I was stationed in Germany, I took some German classes for college credit. I learned quite a bit, and was even able to think in German before I left the country. There is quite a difference in high Deutsch, used in books and other printed matter and spoken in the northern areas, and low Deutsch, which is spoken in the southern areas. My instructor’s name was Dieter, and he was very careful to give us practice in both areas.

I remember Dieter not just for his excellent teaching skills, but because he also gave me the recipe for German Potato Salad. I can no longer find the paper he wrote it on, but here is the recipe:

You start with already cooked potatoes, and slice them. Fry some bacon and crumble it. Then make gravy from the drippings. Add some sugar to the gravy and let that melt, then add a little vinegar. (You have to do this to taste, so I’m not giving exact measurements.) Pour that gravy over the potatoes and and bacon, and mix well. If you like onion, saute a little of that in the bacon drippings as well.

No, that’s not a spelling error in the title. Salat ist für den “Salad” deutsch.

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When I was young, I spent a lot of time at my Grandparent’s house. I might have mentioned that a time or two. Usually I was hanging out wherever they were, but not always. Once I got to be old enough, they gave me free reign in the house, and I got to explore this and that. I never plundered in their room of course, but I plundered everywhere else.

I used to stay in the room that had been my mother’s. There was a built in shelf behind the door of that room, and Grandmother let me keep some of my own books there, and I was allowed to read anything else I found in the house. Oh, and the dresser always had neat stuff in it, too. Nothing too outrageous, just normal stuff. The highboy in that room held Grandmother’s fabrics and sewing supplies, and that was always good for a couple hours entertainment.

The other room in the house used to be my uncle’s and that room was the most fascinating room ever. There was a vanity dresser in there that just held fascinating things, manly things, not the feminine things I was used to. The highboy in that room, though is what I remember the most. you’ll notice I’ve said “stuff, things” etc, and it’s because I don’t remember exactly what was in those other drawers. But the highboy in Uncle’s room, that’s different.

In that highboy were pictures. Lovely black and white and sepia toned photographs of people I never knew. When Grandmother had time, she would tell me who so and so was in those pictures. Another drawer held the things that Granddad brought back from the war. It was in that drawer that I first found a Catholic Bible. It was palm sized, and navy blue. It’s different from the version other Christians use, you know. I did not know that at the time, so I took it out and asked Grandmother what it was, and she told me. And then, she made sure that the Bible was placed reverently back in the drawer. I don’t think she ever read from that Bible, but it was important to her that it be treated with respect.

I miss the sound of my Grandmother’s voice. I just realized how very much I miss that sound.

When I was a little girl, Granddad had a job at the sawmill. He’d farm during the day, and he worked second shift at the mill. I spent a lot of weekends with him and Grandmother. Now, Grandmother and I would sit up and wait for Granddad.

I don’t know what he did when I wasn’t there, but when I was, he brought home a treat. It was often a moon pie and a coke. As an adult, every time I see them in the grocery store, I think of my granddad.

So moon pies became a comfort food for me. My husband and children all know that I can be bribed into just about anything with a moon pie and a coke. DD#1 brought me one just a few nights ago, in fact. They know that if I am sad that treat-ful combination will lift my spirits. No matter how bad it gets, a moon pie will help.

But here’s the funny thing. As an adult, I don’t really care overmuch for moon pies. And yet I buy them. And I eat them. And each time I remember the man who thought I was just about everything. And I thought he walked on water.

I’m submitting this post to Southern Fried. Why don’t you submit one too?
:southernfried:

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