Sunday, February 21, 2016


I have mentioned before that my family moved a couple of times while I was growing up. Only one place stayed the same—Granny’s.
The farm came into the family in the 1800s. Land Grant, I think. There was plenty of ground unexplored.
I remember searching for shiny rocks. I also recall a certain tree with a limb that mimicked a rocking horse. I found a gorgeous Luna moth and put her in a jar. I only knew she was female because she laid eggs in her new home. When I took the jar to school, there were tiny caterpillars all around the building.
There was a one-room schoolhouse, flanked by my great-grandparents’ home and Granny’s house. By the way, my World War II-fighting, Purple Heart medal-winning grandpa built the house for them. Literally.
Back to Granny. The woman could cook. I think she creamed everything. I take that back. The green beans were cooked in bacon grease and the broccoli wasn’t creamed either. Before my plate was cleared, I always heard, “Ali, want some pie?” No matter how many people there were, there was always room around the table.
Beautifully sewn and embroidered, this apron made its way to my kitchen from hers.
I went for noodle lessons one Saturday. I forgot to mention how good her noodles were. They were amazing, and I was even able to make them at home before I got sick.
Growing up, my brother and I alternated on the sugar cereal. I don’t remember what his favorite was, but mine was, and always will be, Lucky Charms. There also was a steady stream of Cheetos and Doritos glutting from her cabinets. And crème wafers. Yummy. Also really unhealthy, but she lived until she was 94. Go figure. When she was still physically able, she mowed her own lawn, tended her own vegetable garden and drove into town in her big, old, green truck.
It was at Granny’s that I learned that the amount of shine on one’s wrapping paper isn’t directly correlated with how much one is loved. Although it is a nice bonus... But I am better adjusted as a granddaughter of Beulah Olive.