Little Girl Time

    The Buffington household was not always filled with smiles and hugs, especially when hormonal teenagers were involved, namely me. Daddy worked hard to provide for the family and trusted Mama with most of the child-rearing. The system worked well because Mama knows things—like what I’ve done, what I might do, and what I’m going to do. She can read my mind, even as an adult. Overall, it was a division of labor that worked well. Mama did her best to prepare us for puberty and adulthood, in her own special way.

    Of course, no one in our family said the word S—E—X. It was always spelled out like some secret code. Mama didn’t realize I learned about S—E—X in the sixth grade from the new set of World Book Encyclopedias while doing a report on Spain. It was my most interesting report and I worked on it diligently. Soon, other sixth graders were fascinated with Spain.

    As I grew to be a young lady, my mother was especially careful in what she told us and how she told us. For example, I found out about female monthly cycles at an afternoon Girl Scout meeting when a nurse came to talk with us. Mama had to sign a permission slip and it was all very hush, hush. I was totally disgusted at a wasted meeting and never wanted to talk about it again—ever! My friend’s mothers would refer to “that time of the month” as “Aunt Flo’s visit,” or the “Red-haired Aunt’s visit.” But not my mother. She sweetly called it, “Our Little Girl Time.” It was a phrase that, in my teenage mind, evoked a deep sense of anger and hostility, like some ancient beast rising from a pit.    

    One afternoon, I came home from school and like most epic battles, no one can remember the spark that ignited the blaze. I can only remember that I thought I was going to die and couldn’t stop talking. Mama had obviously made a comment, asked me a question, or reminded me of a forgotten task, when I turned into a raving maniac. In less than two minutes I had brought forth the attitude, the smart mouth, and the disdainful roll of the eyes—the trifecta of teenage rebellion. In the back of my mind, a small voice was pleading, “You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die!” I knew, I was gonna die, and it didn’t matter. I could not quit running my mouth.

    It was at that moment that mama looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “Is it your little girl time?” That phrase was like invoking the name of a monster, filled with rage and fury. I could feel the energy and heat rise from the pit of my stomach. I answered sternly through almost clenched teeth, “YES MA’AM” Now, I knew the end was near. She was gonna kill me dead and it was my fault. Instead, she paused, took a deep breath, and stepped back. Her next words were true genius and saved her from jail time and me from bodily injury. She said, “Me too! You go to your corner and I'll go to mine!”

    She turned and headed to the kitchen and I fled to my bedroom. I hid out most of the evening and stayed quiet. The next morning, all was well again. Apologies, hugs, and a new start. Mama was great about that. Even King Solomon has nothing on my mother.

Puppy Love

   

  

    The nineteen fifties—with its soda shoppes, bobby socks, poodle skirts, drive-in theaters, and rock’n’roll music—formed the backdrop for my parents' romance. It is a love story that overcame youth, inexperience, parental objections, financial struggles, six children, sickness, and death. My grandmother would scold, "It's only puppy love," and quietly, as only a teenager could, my mother would smile and add, "Puppy love is real to the puppy." Mama still tells the story with that sly smile and a twinkle in her eyes. 

They both attended Russel High School in East Point, Georgia. Bill, my future Daddy, was a high school junior, driving a black 1947 Ford Business Coupe and working part-time at Pope’s Grocery. Nancy, my future mama, was a sophomore, walking to and from school each day, and dealing with her parent’s divorce. They lived around the corner from each other, but had never met.  That changed one spring afternoon at Collins Drug Store, the neighborhood hangout.

On this particular day, Grandma’s friends were visiting from Ohio. Mama affectionately called them “Yankees,” referring only to where they were from, not the more notorious southern expression “Damn Yankees.” There is a difference. To avoid sitting proper, listening to boring adult conversation, and making small talk with out-of-towners, my mother, Nancy, wearing her cotton blouse, poodle skirt, bobby socks, and flats, along with her younger sister Pat, made a quick getaway by taking a walk to the Collins Drug Store.

It just so happened, Bill had finished his shift at Pope’s Grocery and was hanging out at Collins Drug Store, with his best friend Wayman, who had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Bill and Wayman were seated at a booth and Daddy had just ordered his favorite Vanilla Coke.

The soda shoppe was arranged with a food counter and booths. Nancy and Pat sat down in the booth adjoining Bill and Wayman. As fortune would have it, Bill and Nancy could look past Wyman and Pat, who were back-to-back.  From the corner jukebox, Fats Domino, Little Richard, and Chuck Berry took turns keeping the room rocking. Eleven-year-old Pat proudly marched her quarter to the jukebox to make her own music selection. Well, you know how little sisters can be. Maybe she thought the song was about a dog named Boxer? Whatever possessed her, she did not choose Elvis’ crooning out “Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Instead, she chose the 1949 polka called, “When Charlie Was a Boxer” by Frankie Yankovic & His Yanks with The Marlin Sisters!

Just as Mama ordered her fountain Coke, the unexpected polka music filled the air, Nancy looked down, covered her face with her hand, and blushed beet red from the part in her ponytail to her rolled-down bobby socks. Just at that moment, her eyes met Bill’s. His eyes twinkled with merriment at her situation, and he winked. Daddy could say a lot with that wink. Nancy quickly assessed the tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed sweetie and decided she would need to thank Aunt Pat one day.

Mama knew Wayman because he was the boyfriend of her friend Peggy, so Wayman began making introductions. When Wyman introduced Bill as Billy, Daddy quickly changed the name to Bill. Mama always remembered, and even though the whole world, at that time, called him Billy, she always called him Bill and eventually—her Bill. After introductions, the conversation flowed until dark was falling. As Nancy and Pat got up to leave Wyman and Bill insisted on giving them a ride home in Daddy’s coupe, with its single bench seat. When Nancy feebly protested, Wayman insisted they were not strangers and it was only a short ride. Nancy squeezed into the seat, next to Bill, with Wyman on her right. In the age before seatbelts, Pat, ended up riding home, in Wyman’s lap!

Mom-Wisdom

There are many different types of wisdom in the world: God-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of our existence on Earth, Man-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of governments and economies, and Mom-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of proper behavior, attitude, and respect. My earliest recollection of Mom-wisdom occurred around the age of four, along a busy stretch of a city road near the local grocers, with cars and trucks whizzing down the hill to beat the light at the bottom and cars and trucks whizzing up the hill to beat the light at the top. We had walked to Harris’s Grocery that morning hand in hand on a spring day. On the return trip, Mama was carrying two brown bags full of groceries, which meant she could not hold my hand to cross the busy street. As we stood near the curb and watched the traffic, she firmly and calmly said, “Debbie, we need to cross this street.  You hold tight to my skirt, or these cars will run over you, and you’ll be dead. Then we’ll have to dig a big hole and put you in it and put dirt on top of you.” I held tightly to Mama’s skirt as we crossed the road to the other side. All the while she bragged about how good I was doing. Mom-wisdom and a good dose of encouragement took me safely across the road and down the block to our house. Three generations of daughters have now repeated the same line to their children, and no child has ever let loose and run into the road or across the parking lot — because of Mom-wisdom.

            Mom-wisdom covers a lot of territory and fits the age and disposition of the child.  Well-known examples include: “Eat your vegetables so you can grow strong.” “Brush your teeth so they don’t rot out of your head.” “Don’t talk to strangers.” However, my mother surpassed the usual Mom-wisdom in content, honesty, and flair. When dressing for church or a special occasion, Mama would remind us of proper behavior by looking us over approvingly, smiling, and then adding, “Pretty is as pretty does.” With five boisterous children in tow, she did not have time to explain why we needed to obey a specific request. When questioned, she simply replied firmly, in a no-nonsense tone, “Because I said so.” Our response, as it should be, was a quick "Yes, ma'am." 

            As we grew older Mom-wisdom advanced beyond immediate safety or obedience. It was important for us to be ladies and gentlemen and to set a good example. Daddy smoked cigarettes and no one thought anything about it. Of course, we didn't understand the health risks back then. However, Mama, while not explicitly telling us not to smoke, established the standard that, “Women smoke — Ladies don’t.” 

As teenagers, dating revealed new streams of Mom-wisdom that caused us to pause, reflect, and then laugh. My first love was a young man named Walter. We met at church camp one summer. Mom-wisdom warned, “The boy will go as far as the girl will let him.” There was also Mom-wisdom that taught us not to call boys, but wait for them to call us. While I thought it ridiculous at the time, I now understand the maxim, “The boy chases the girl until the girl catches him.” The Mom-wisdom that caught us most off guard and resulted in snickers was addressed to no one in particular one summer day when my brother's live-in girlfriend was bemoaning the fact that my brother had not proposed marriage. Mama, simply muttered, “Don’t buy the cow if you get the milk for free.” After a split second to process this new saying, we all snickered, except my future sister-in-law who stared at us with a blank look. 

Mom-wisdom guided all five children through various stages of development and rebellion, and then let us loose and encouraged us to laugh, to love, and to live. Motherhood is something that a mother never outgrows, even when her children grow up to become well-rounded adults. Mama has always found the wisdom for what is needed at the moment, whatever our ages. 

            One of Mama's best pieces of advice, the top-shelf Mom-wisdom, arrived after several sleepless nights of comforting a teething baby. It came during an afternoon phone call on a busy day when my oldest daughter was finally peacefully napping. I was tired, frustrated, and venting about things I wanted to change. I lamented,” I’ll be happy when Amanda sleeps through the night. I’ll be happy when Andy has a better job. I’ll be happy when we get a bigger place. I’ll be happy when I lose weight." Mama listened patiently and then gently said, "Don’t put off being happy. Be happy today.” That bit of Mom-wisdom, lived out by example, refocused my priorities and enabled me to enjoy raising my own children without waiting for life to be perfect.

    Another treasured bit of Mom-wisdom was revealed when I was 35, had returned to college, was dealing with my own teenager daughter, and my husband was sick. Suddenly everything was my job and I was overwhelmed with the fear and responsibility. Mama was my sounding board, my rock, and my best friend. She would listen and without judgment or lectures, say, "Just do the next thing." I have hung on those words for decades. Mom-wisdom is powerful medicine. 

 

Camping Trip to Last a Lifetime

   

Whenever someone hears this story, they invariably think I am exaggerating.  After all, it is not unusual for families to sell their home in order to build a new house or to buy twenty acres of land in order to plant a substantial garden or to take their families on an extended camping trip in order to appreciate the simple life.  However, forty-five years ago, when the Buffington household decided to head for the hills of Hall County, build a home in the wilderness, and raise their own food, our lives were anything but business as usual.

            Daddy developed a plan that included selling the home I had grown up in, buying land, building a house with solar heating, growing our own food, and raising farm animals.  Mama lovingly explained to us that daddy had always been borderline eccentric.  My brothers, sisters, and I laughingly insisted that daddy had always been way over the edge.  Daddy prepared for this metamorphosis from city slicker to country bumpkin by reading publications like Independence on Three Acres of Land, the Farmer’s Almanac, Mother Earth News, and Organic Gardening.  He even had a daily schedule worked out ahead of time.  In the mornings, his plan was for us to work in the garden and finish chores, in the afternoons to mosey over to the lake for a swim, and in the evenings to gather around the home place for quality family time to the hum of Appalachian dulcimer music.  Throughout the entire enterprise, daddy would announce, “It’s not all going to be work!”  To this day, I don’t know if he was trying to convince himself or us.

            As always, my parents were a team.  Daddy had the dreams, but mama made them a reality.  It took over two years to sell the house that had been our home for twelve years.  After a multitude of contracts with real estate agencies, frequent cries of, “they’re going to show the house!” frenzied cleaning sessions of dubious quality, and parades of strangers roaming through our bedrooms, mama finally sold the house- to the Avon lady.  I did not realize then how difficult it was for mama to leave the home where each baby, except for Janet and me, was brought home from the hospital.  There had been a lot of loving, a lot of growing, and a lot of laughter in that house.  Mama’s heart overflowed with cherished memories and squeezed tears from her eyes, but she resolutely hitched her wagon to Daddy’s and they headed for northeast Georgia.

Cutting the driveway through the wilderness.

            The parcel of land was loosely divided into useable regions based on the terrain.  The upper three acres closest to the road were terraced into three sections for cultivating a garden.  Consequently, the rows of bean plants curved and stretched from one end of the garden to the other, like the ocean straining to meet the horizon.  The back five acres, closest to the creek, embraced the skeleton of a new home place, the hint of a future orchard, and the promise of civilization to seven uncertain pioneers.  Between the garden and the future homestead were woods, and nestled in a grove of hardwood trees was our new temporary home- the camper. 

Mama and Billy in the garden.

    Our family was experienced at camping, or so we thought.  The pop-up camper, which served as the main bedroom, had a metal base, two, full-size, pullout beds, and a canvas cover.  Zipped to the front of this was an extended room that served as a kitchen, sleeping area, and eating area when it rained.  A large, plastic dining fly-covered a picnic table for an impromptu dining room.  The living room was a circle of lawn chairs and campstools surrounding the campfire. 

Our new home.

            

In a manner of speaking, we had all the comforts of home.  Our bathroom facilities consisted of an outhouse lovingly referred to as the throne room, thirty paces southeast of the living room.  Daddy even used his ingenuity to create a shower.  The water source was the neighbor's well, connected to a spigot, attached to a pine tree about six feet off the ground.  The pine tree was connected to three other pine trees by a swatch of black plastic forming a rectangular enclosure. The make-shift shower surround was placed at a fairly strategic level to shield our innocence from prowling eyes. The theory was sound, but the location was questionable.  The shower was placed northwest of the camper, south of the garden, and directly adjacent to the road used by the workmen when traveling to and from the building site. However, the workmen’s trucks were big, tall, hardy affairs that easily allowed them to see down from their lofty heights into our lowly shower.  We consistently endured the icy well water and took our showers after dark, when the workmen had gone home for the day.

Daddy, right, with his farmer hat.
Charles, left, allowed us to connect to his well.

Daddy, being daddy, managed to get a hot shower every afternoon.  The hose, stretching from our new shower to the neighbor’s well, meandered along the driveway, across our property, and over their lawn in the sunshine.  True to the physics of solar energy, the sun heated the water in the hose enough for daddy to get a hot shower every afternoon before going to work.  Some days, as the summer temperatures rose, he was blessed with a hotter shower than he had anticipated.  Daddy continued to work for IBM and every day he left for work clean-shaven, sweet-smelling, wearing a neatly pressed suit, white shirt, and polished shoes.  I often wondered if his colleagues knew how he was really living.

            Mama must be descended from rugged stock.  She always could get more accomplished in less time than other mere mortals.  Facing the challenge ahead of her, she braced herself, put on her best, comforting smile, took control of her offspring, and proceeded to make a home in the woods.  Ordinarily, voluminous jobs, like doing the laundry for seven people, including five rambunctious children, became one of her biggest obstacles.  Every other day or so, we piled into the car, along with the clothes, and went to the Laundromat to wash.  As the clothes sloshed and spun in the electric washing machines, we eyed the traffic of people and cars going about their daily, colorless routine.

            Miraculously, mama also managed to prepare the traditional, southern meals we had always eaten, like fried chicken, breaded pork chops, and country-fried steak and gravy with all the extras, using only our makeshift kitchen.  We even had real iced tea, home-cooked blackberry syrup, and homemade jams and jellies.  She planted a huge garden, and as the crops began to come in, she canned food for the winter over a Coleman stove.  From beginning to end, I did not hear her complain, but I did hear her laugh.  She taught us, by example, to make the best of things, look to the future and keep working.

            For my siblings and me, this was the beginning of a grand adventure, an extended vacation, and wonderful home.  Looking back, we joke that we were homeless before it was popular, but at that time, we didn’t realize we were homeless in the traditional sense.  We knew where home was really located.  Our house was the camper, sheltered in the shade trees, but our home was wherever mama and daddy were together.

  

Mini-HaHa Dinners

Mama is sort of like Mary Poppins, without the umbrella and carpetbag.  She always has a way of turning the most mundane, everyday situations into fun, by changing the name.  What you name something matters, especially to a child.  The right name sets the tone and can turn something yucky into something tasty or something worrisome into something fun.

Mama prepared three meals a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.  Multiply that by 7 family members, 4 cousins, and various friends and neighbors over a period of years and years and you can begin to gauge the mammoth task she faced.  Eating out was not an option. To us, eating out meant that we were camping and Mama still cooked dinner. The task required a strong will, determination, a large dose of creativity.

She always woke up before the rest of the family to brew a pot of coffee and hopefully drink one cup before the day started.  Then, she tackled breakfast.  On cool mornings she might make a big pot of oatmeal or cream of wheat, a cinnamon coffee cake, or buttermilk biscuits.  On a warm summer morning, we might have cereal and milk or cinnamon toast.  Sometimes she made blueberry muffins, french toast, pancakes, or waffles.  We ate normal breakfasts like everyone else.  That changed early one morning when my cousin Byron thought Mama was making pancakes for breakfast.  In a small, sleepy voice he pleaded, "Aunt Nancy, I don't like pancakes."  Hesitation and uncertainty cause many schemes to fail, but Mama never hesitated.  She looked him in the eyes and cheerfully replied, "We are not having pancakes, we are having Bugieboos."   That was good, because Byron liked Bugieboos, or was too confused to put up a fuss.  To make Bugieboos you start with pancake batter. Next, you heat up the pan and add a little bit of oil for frying.  I know it sounds a lot like pancakes, but the difference is in the technique.  Instead of making little round circles of pancakes, you drizzle the batter in ever-changing directions to make crazy designs in the pan.  It is like modern art only with pancake batter and an iron skillet.  Top the Bugieboo with butter and syrup and magically, breakfast for Byron. If you have ever watched clouds overhead on a summer day and said, "That one looks like Mickey Mouse or that one looks like a dog."  then you can imagine our conversation at the breakfast table while eating Bugieboos.  From that day forward, pancakes ceased to exist and Bugieboos ruled the world.

The problem with lunch is that it seems to arrive just as you finish the breakfast dishes.  Mama had a lot of good ideas for lunch.  On cool days we might have Campbell's Tomato Soup with a grilled cheese sandwich or cheese toast.  One of my favorites was Franco American Spaghettios with wieners sliced up in it.  In the summertime, we would have a sandwich and potato chips. Sometimes we had bologna, or pineapple and mayonnaise, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Other times she made chicken salad, ham salad, roast beef salad, or egg salad, depending on the available leftovers. One afternoon Mama made a big bowl of egg salad for sandwiches.  My little brother, Wade, stated his preference.  "I don't like egg salad sandwiches."  It just so happened that Mama needed to use up the rest of the hot dog buns.  So, in her usual, confident manner she, answered, "We're not having egg salad sandwiches, we're having Polish Egg Rolls."  To make Polish Egg Rolls, you put mayonnaise on a hot dog bun and fill it with egg salad.  Wade said that he loved Polish Egg rolls.  So, a new household specialty was born. Egg salad sandwiches were banished in favor of Polish Egg Rolls.

With so many mouths to feed sometimes, food ran low, just before Daddy got paid.  We didn't realize why, but suddenly the refrigerator had more room and the cabinets were not crowded with cans or boxes.  That's when Mama displayed her best tricks in the kitchen.  She would wash up the supper dishes and come into the living room to relax with the family, with a little smile on her face.  A short time later, we would smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen.  With a clever blend of thriftiness and imagination, mama turned the leftover rice, the rest of the milk, one egg, and the last of raisins into rice pudding with sprinkles of nutmeg on top.  The final cup of flour, the remaining sugar, the rest of the milk, and a can of peaches became a peach cobbler.  She would make banana bread, pumpkin bread, cinnamon rolls, or Wacky Chocolate Cake using whatever odds and ends of food were still in the house.

Every artist has a masterpiece that exemplifies and commemorates their best work and Mama has hers. We didn't realize it at the time, but on this particular summer day, groceries were running low. As soon as Daddy's check came in the mail, Mama was ready for us to take the check to the bank and then buy groceries at the local A&P.   Lunchtime came before the mailman arrived and Mama had to come up with a plan to feed five hungry children in a hurry.  As a result, the Mini-Haha Lunch was born. Simply put, a Mini-Haha Lunch consists of whatever you have in the house that is quick and easily available: saltines, peanut butter, jam, canned fruit, or baby food. The baby's food was ordinarily reserved for the baby, except for the occasional Mini-Haha lunch. Back in those days, Gerber put sugar in the baby food, so it was very tasty.  My favorites were the baby apricots, the vanilla pudding, and the teething biscuits.   Mini-Haha lunches, or dinners, became a family favorite and the tradition has continued with my own children.  Last week, AJ was surprised to learn that the rest of the world did not know about Mini-Haha meals.  Now they know.

Trouble

     Some people are born with a knack for avoiding trouble and some people are born with a knack for getting into trouble.  Unfortunately, I fall into the latter category.  When you are a kid there are two types of trouble.  The first is when you choose to take a calculated risk that you might be clever enough to get away with something or that the punishment, if you are caught, will be such that the crime was worth it.  The second type of trouble is when you never saw it coming and then BOOM! Life as you know it seems over and you have to pay penance or lay low for awhile.
     The first type of trouble is possible to avoid, depending on your temperament, or impossible to accomplish, depending on your parents.  Out of the five children in the Buffington Clan, I was not the one with the temperament to avoid trouble.  Fortunately, my parents, especially Mama, could read my mind, so I rarely thought it was possible to get away with something and the punishment was substantial enough to thwart a great majority of my mischief.    The problem was that my mind was, and is, always planning and scheming to build something, try something, or say something, all of which leads to unforeseen trouble.  One of my favorite activities was to confiscate leftover boards, bricks, and miscellaneous items to use for building forts, swings, tight ropes, and obstacle courses.  Mama categorized all of my building accomplishments as "contraptions."  The safety record for my contraptions only involved two accidents, both of which could have been avoided if the injured party had listened.  I warned them not to climb on it yet because it wasn't ready: I hadn't tested it yet.  As the oldest, I was concerned for the safety of family and friends, therefore all of my contraptions went through a rigorous testing procedure in which I climbed on top and jumped as hard as possible to see if it collapsed.  If it didn't collapse, I declared it safe. The earliest incident involved my friend Doug. I was one year older than Doug and I hadn't started kindergarten yet, so it is easy to see that my propensity for trouble began early.  It was a simple contraption leaning against the pole of the swing set.  He fell climbing on it and busted his lip; blood went everywhere.  Mama was babysitting that morning and did not appreciate my explanation of why it was not my fault.  The second safety incident involved my sister, Janet.  After my warning, she looked me straight in the eye and climbed on the newest contraption.  She fell, knocked out both front teeth, and had to wait about three years for her permanent teeth to come in.  That definitively ended my access to raw materials and decreased my enthusiasm for building.
     As I said earlier, I always wanted to try something different, like humming with my fingers in my ears, making the thickest sandwich possible, while mama was on the phone or chiseling the shape of a rifle in a piece of pine, (not good, pine splits).  Sometimes my curiosity and scientific inquiry called for testing a hypothesis. One evening I was cleaning the kitchen after dinner.  Unloading the dishwasher sounded like a straightforward task until I noticed that a serrated knife looked sort of like a drill bit.  Then, I started wondering if maybe this type of "drill" could make a hole in a piece of wood if it was held perpendicular to the wood and had a little pressure behind it.  The knives and a wooden drawer front were conveniently at hand.  In my mind I kept thinking this won't really work, so why not try it?  So, I carefully held the serrated knife at a right angle to the drawer front, leaned into it slightly, and rotated the knife clockwise.  Oops!  The result of my experiment was the neatest, cone-shaped hole in the drawer.  Of course, at that point, there was nothing to do but finish the kitchen, go to bed, and pretend I knew nothing about it.  I was so relieved to hear mama and daddy talking and discover there was such a creature as a carpenter beetle.  That poor insect took the blame for 40 years.
     As a child, I had a perfect talent for saying the wrong thing, at the wrong time, or to the wrong people.  Getting in trouble for saying the wrong thing is not limited to children:  albeit, children do have a way of getting the most mileage out of misspoken words.  Daddy and I were in the backyard on a clear, fall day, assembling a new swing set.  I thought I was helping, but mostly I was hanging out and talking to Daddy.  I decided to ask a simple question that had puzzled me for a while.  I had observed that Daddy and Mama's mother were polite, but not friendly.  So, I asked, "Daddy, do you like Grandmama?" Daddy gave a witty, funny response that made me laugh, and then we went on working.
     I loved going to spend the night with Grandmama and Grandpa.  Grandmama made the best homemade pancakes the size of dinner plates and Grandpa took me fishing.  Grandmama and I would go shopping and come home with chocolate eclairs or a box of white-powered doughnuts.  Even so, the best part of the visit was just getting to talk.  Grandmama and I would chat about everything and she would tell me stories about when Mama was a little girl.  Mama and Daddy always warned me not to tell family business.  That was easy to do because I didn't know anything about money.  On this particular visit, we sat in the kitchen eating lunch and Grandmama asked one simple question, similar to the one I asked Daddy: "Your Daddy doesn't like your Grandma very much, does he?"   Suddenly, I remembered Daddy's witty reply and quickly answered with a chuckle, "He says that you're alright in your place, but they haven't dug it yet."  It is now clear to me that the reason Mama and Daddy can read my mind is that I inherited my predisposition for trouble.
   

Suppertime

     Years ago, as a young mother, I began to realize how much I was like my parents.  I sounded just like mama on the day our oldest daughter, then a toddler, turned her back to me and purposefully began to walk across the library to investigate.  I began my correction with a firm, "I'll give you once...."  I literally turned around to see if mama was standing behind me.  I follow the news, grumble about politics and worry over the future of our country, just like daddy.  However, it took me becoming a grandmother to begin to see how much I take after my grandmothers.  It is a comfortable feeling overall, but a bit disconcerting at times.
     The grandchildren called mama's mother, Grandmama.  It was known to all that Grandmama ran a tight ship.  Her motto was, "A place for everything and everything in its place."  That was a difficult concept to handle when I woke up early one dark morning to go to the bathroom and returned to find the bed made with several fancy, lacy pillows arranged neatly at the head of the bed.  Obviously, it was time to get up.  I wondered sleepily into the living room and saw her busily preparing breakfast. There was nothing to do, but perch on the edge of the couch, barely touching the overstuffed, colorful, sofa pillows that were  arranged symmetrically at both ends, and await further instructions.
     The grandchildren called daddy's mother, Grandmommy.  The name Gramdmama was taken and she didn't want to be called Granny.  Later in life she told me that if she had known she was going to live so long, she would have chosen something else.  Both grandmothers woke up in the early hours of the morning to prepare a fine breakfast for their husbands, but the similarity ended there.  Once again, I awoke early one morning, while it was still dark, in time to give Granddaddy a hug and kiss good-bye before he went to work.  Grandmommy and I were still in pajamas, so after a fond farewell, we did the most sensible thing possible: checked that the stove was off, piled the dishes in the sink, and went back to bed until a decent hour.
     In my mind, I want to be like Grandmama when it comes to fixing a nice dinner, setting the table and saying the prayer before dinner.  It never mattered if company was coming or not, the table was beautiful: each place setting laid out with care, folded napkins, glittering silverware, sparking ice-tea glasses, lacy tablecloth, and decorative serving dishes laden with good home-made food.  She fixed a juicy, tender pot roast with potatoes and carrots, made creamy scalloped potatoes, and served up Spam breaded in cracker crumbs and fried in butter. She even promised desert, after you cleaned your plate, by including a small desert dish to the left of the plate.  Desert could be pudding with a few vanilla wafers, a slice of toasted pound cake, or a dish of ice-cream.  Meals were delicious, on time and attendance was required.
     In reality, I am more like daddy's mother, when it comes to meals.  She owned many cookbooks, some of which have been passed on to me.  She particularly seemed to like the cookbooks with ideas for what to have for dinner.  Along with her recipes, she has copious lists of menus, groceries, and ideas paper-clipped to various pages.  Thankfully, the window wash solution made with kerosene is clearly marked POISON.  Even with all the suggestions, dinner time at Grandmommy's didn't go as smoothly.  Dinner time was whenever time dinner got ready, and that could change depending on whether she had to go to the store first or not.  Everyone sat to the table for the blessing, and  almost everyone sat to the table to eat.  As soon as Granddaddy said the blessing, "Lord, for this food, make us truly thankful,"  Grandmommy would pop up from her seat to retrieve or check on something she left in the kitchen.  Even with all the chaos, Grandmommy made the best grits for breakfast, the tastiest potato salad, and the most colorful congeal salads.
     My intentions are good, I know how to cook, and I own hundreds, (yes hundreds) of cookbooks, but the execution of my best-laid plans are sketchy.  The table becomes the temporary landing place for the mail, library books, ironing, tools, school books, and laptops.  By the time dinner is ready, we sit in our recliners in front of the television and discuss the day's events during commercial breaks or whenever the Internet streaming gets bogged down and has to catch up.  In addition, on Monday and Tuesday, IHOP has buy one-get-on deals for senior citizens, age 55 and up, so we tend to eat out regularly.  I think that is the closest we have been to a sit-down meal in the last month.  (The new school year began, but that will be another blog entry.)  It is sad to see dinner time fading away like land-line phones, board games, and snail mail.
     Once again, I am setting a goal of having a healthy dinner ready, at a suitable time.  I would love for us to sit down at the table to eat.  I even have the table cloth on the table and a colorful fall flower arrangement for a centerpiece.  So, here I sit with a stack of cookbooks, a collection of favorite recipes, and a notepad to make a grocery list.  In true Doodlebug fashion, I am not giving up my dream of having a nice, sit-down dinner, as a family, with time out to say a decent thank-you for our blessings. So, this week I vow to do better: clean out the refrigerator, make a meal plan, clean off the dining room table, and enlist the family's help.  We'll see how it goes.

Grandmama's Fried Spam

1 can of Spam, sliced about 1/4" thick

   2 eggs, beaten with a fork

saltine cracker crumbs

butter

Melt the butter in the pan.

Dip a slice of Spam into the egg

and then into the cracker crumbs.

Fry in the melted butter, until

golden brown on both sides.