As we finished the last of a very successful pot roast, I thought of the Memorial Day Dinner in my hometown, Nebo, Illinois. What a feast it was. It was ham, more ham, fried chicken, more fried chicken. Then there were every potato dish known to be prepared in the Midwest. Then the dessert table overflowed with homemade pies, homemade cakes, homemade cookies and more pies. Don't forget the jello extravagances.
It was a wonderful day. I was a teenager then and kinda resented my roll of refilling the dessert table and serving pie/cake/cookies to known and familiar people. Also, I brought desserts to the unknown visitors who yet had a similarity to townsmen around them. Good memories. Great food.
This brings to mind what we now consider a lifetime of food memories. So, given the excellent pot roast, what do you consider memories of good food? this is mine: mashed potatoes, white gravy,creamed peas, ham salad, homemade rolls (made by my grandmother), bread pudding w/raisins, warm tomatoes from our garden, pickled cucumbers, pecan pie, strawberry shortcake with homemade whipped cream...Okay, enough already. Your memories?
Just saying “Memorial Day”
sets off a slide show in my head.
Flowers on graves….flags…Veterans in parade…community dinner…people
sitting together…laughter...gossip…tractors…pick-ups…Those are all part of a
very long slide show.
Oh, I could write about
feeling like an indentured servant as a teenager serving desserts and cleaning
up.
But, mainly the message here
is one of community and communion: Together, worshiping, sharing memories,
passing on traditions, and meeting as one.
This song comes to mind: Let
Us Break Bread Together
The Honorable Judge Cedric Damian Easterton, featured speaker
Easterton was ending the second hour of eloquent homage to the history of the American Manifest Destiny. It was clear he was winding down and heading into his closing remarks.
"Always be Certain,"
Demanded Easterton. shake fist and glare
"Facts, gathered hastily
Infect justice!"
pause for dramatic presentation
"Keep learning!
Make no officious proclamations!"
introspective stance
"Quiet reflection --
Serious thought,
Understanding.
Victory!
dramatic pose
"Who will explore
Yonder zeniths?"
Thunderous applause erupted as Easterton concluded his impassioned elocution. Mr. Cyril Thyme-Smythe and friend Dr. Richard A Rodgers stood as Easterton left the stage. They made haste to the refreshments bar. "What did that pompous old gasbag say?" Smythe quizzed as he sipped Glenlivet. "Hell, if I know," replied Rodgers, as he tossed back a second shot of Old Bushmills. I know this probably makes no sense at all, unless you can see the purpose of Easterton's closing statements. Are you READY? The A to Z approacheth.
There are fragments of memories that float around in my head, things from the earliest years in Preacher’s Creek.Smells and sounds of a big family dinner, ham with scalloped potatoes.Being surrounded by giants, and seeing only their knees, or looking up their noses.My father’s soft aroma, being nestled into the crick of his elbow, while he read the newspaper.The security of my little sweaty hand in my momma’s warm hand, her fingers caressing the top of my fingers.
These quick snap-shot float through my brain with no words attached to them, only deep reactions of emotions to events that swirled around me, before I had learned words and could attach meaning.
But then, almost overnight, all those images settled like lime Jell-O in a refrigerator, going from hot sweet sticky liquid to a jiggling solid.All those fragments became a moving picture in which my family was the stars and Preacher’s Creek was our stage.
It was Memorial Day, I was told, and we went to the Hunter Cemetery.We spent a lot of time there, visiting headstones, laying out flowers, and telling stories about the dead people who were lying peacefully under the grass.
I had been given some pretty straight forward instructions, a face to face with Momma, where she looked deep into my eyes, with her hands on each side of my head.“Now, Ellen Jo Carter,” she had said.When she used the whole name, it meant serious business.“You are going stay right here, in this spot, and you will keep your clothes, your shoes, and your socks on.”Momma had covered all the bases here, which was important when dealing with a legalistic four year old.
I had tried her out, just to see if she was really paying attention to me when she moved on to another headstone, leaving me on that spot.Took off my shoes, and was just starting in on the socks, when swoop Momma came down from the sky, like a giant eagle snatching up a helpless baby lamb.SMACK!her hand descended on my scrawny cute little butt, leaving a pink hand print under my panties, the ones with little yellow chicks.
Tears never worked with her, I would learn over and over in the years I was with my mother.She pointed dispassionately, wordlessly, to my discarded shoes and lone sock.Whimpering and looking up at her with big pleading eyes, I went ahead and put them back on.I had been so close to clothes-free romping through the vibrant green grass of Hunter Cemetery.I would have left panties on, but everything else would have been tossed behind my great-grandmother’s headstone.
Placing my hand-pink butt on that spot, I gazed longingly at my two brothers, Ron and Kent.Ron was almost a giant, since he turned nine years old, and he knew absolutely everything, and he could even read.Kent was only a year older than I was, but he was a big kid.His slicked down black hair never moved a hair as he chased Ron, “I’m gonna get you this time!”His glasses were steamed up, so I don’t know how he thought he would have any luck catching Ron.
I swiveled around tenderly, the prickly grass grinding into the little yellow chicks, and faced my great-grandmother’s headstone.Tracing the carved letters, I had no idea that my name was the same as hers.
After the W.I.P. blogfest, I received so much feedback, that I felt invigorated to approach my book from a different angle. This is the result.
Many thanks! again to the A-Z Blogfest team.
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